DAYS AT J. B.'S TURF-FIRES--SPRING SONGS
_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-sparrow-towards noon the reedy trill of the robin.
To-day is the fairest, sweetest yet--penetrating warmth--a 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 and 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 smell--whiffs
just reaching me--welcomer 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) day--lo! there they are, from twig to twig, or fence
to fence, flirting, singing, some mating, preparing to build. But most
of them _en passant_--a fortnight, a month in these parts, and then
away.
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