al with much variety of motion and attitude,
from the peak of the barn or hay shed. As yet, you may have heard only
the plaintive, homesick note of the bluebird, or the faint trill of the
song sparrow; and Phoebe's clear, vivacious assurance of her veritable
bodily presence among us again is welcomed by all ears. At agreeable
intervals in her lay she describes a circle, or an ellipse in the air,
ostensibly prospecting for insects, but really, I suspect, as an
artistic flourish, thrown in to make up in some way for the deficiency
of her musical performance.

Another April comer, who arrives shortly after robin redbreast, with
whom he associates both at this season and in the autumn, is the
golden-winged woodpecker, _alias_ "high-hole," _alias_ "flicker,"
_alias_ "yarup." He is an old favorite of my boyhood, and his note to me
means very much. He announces his arrival by a long, loud call, repeated
from the dry branch of some tree, or a stake in the fence,--a thoroughly
melodious April sound. I think how Solomon finished that beautiful
climax on spring, "And the voice of the turtle is heard in the land,"
and see that a description of spring in this farming country, to be
equally characteristic, should culminate in like manner, "And the call
of the high-hole comes up from the wood."

The song sparrow, that universal favorite and firstling of the spring,
comes before April, and its simple strain gladdens all hearts.

May is the month of the swallows and the orioles. There are many other
distinguished arrivals, indeed, nine tenths of the birds are here by the
last week in May, yet the swallows and orioles are the most conspicuous.
The bright plumage of the latter seems really like an arrival from the
tropics. I see them flash through the blossoming trees, and all the
forenoon hear their incessant warbling and wooing. The swallows dive and
chatter about the barn, or squeak and build beneath the eaves; the
partridge drums in the fresh sprouting woods; the long, tender note of
the meadow lark comes up from the meadow; and at sunset, from every
marsh and pond come the ten thousand voices of the hylas. May is the
transition month, and exists to connect April and June, the root with
the flower.

With June the cup is full, our hearts are satisfied, there is no more to
be desired. The perfection of the season, among other things, has
brought the perfection of the song and plumage of the birds. The master
artists are all here, an