April 26.AT sunrise, the pure clear sound of the meadow lark. An hour later, some notes, few and simple, yet delicious and perfect, from the bush-sparrowtowards noon the reedy trill of the robin. To-day is the fairest, sweetest yetpenetrating warmtha lovely veil in the air, partly heat-vapor and partly from the turf-fires everywhere in patches on the farms. A group of soft maples near by silently bursts out in crimson tips, buzzing all day with busy bees. The white sails of sloops and schooners glide up or down the river; and long trains of cars, with ponderous roll, or faint bell notes, almost constantly on the opposite shore. The earliest wild flowers in the woods and fields, spicy arbutus, blue liverwort, frail anemone, and the pretty white blossoms of the bloodroot. I launch out in slow rambles, discovering them. As I go along the roads I like to see the farmers fires in patches, burning the dry brush, turf, debris. How the smoke crawls along, flat to the ground, slanting, slowly rising, reaching away, and at last dissipating. I like its acrid smellwhiffs just reaching mewelcomer than French perfume.
The birds are plenty; of any sort, or of two or three sorts, curiously, not a sign, till suddenly some warm, gushing, sunny April (or even March) daylo! there they are, from twig to twig, or fence to fence, flirting, singing, some mating, preparing to build. But most of them en passanta fortnight, a month in these parts, and then away. As in all phases, Nature keeps up her vital, copious, eternal procession. Still, plenty of the birds hang around all or most of the seasonnow their love-time, and era of nest-building. I find flying over the river, crows, gulls and hawks. I hear the afternoon shriek of the latter, darting about, preparing to nest. The oriole will soon be heard here, and the twanging meoeow of the cat-bird; also the king-bird, cuckoo and the warblers. All along, there are three peculiarly characteristic spring songsthe meadow-larks, so sweet, so alert and remonstrating (as if he said, dont you see? or, cant you understand?)the cheery, mellow, human tones of the robin(I have been trying for years to get a brief term, or phrase, that would identify and describe that robin-call)and the amorous whistle of the high-hole. Insects are out plentifully at midday.
April 29.As we drove lingering along the road we heard, just after sundown, the song of the wood-thrush. We stoppd without a word, and listend long. The delicious notesa sweet, artless, voluntary, simple anthem, as from the flute-stops of some organ, wafted through the twilightechoing well to us from the perpendicular high rock, where, in some thick young trees recesses at the base, sat the birdfilld our senses, our souls.