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 THE SPRING SONG.  What tidings hath the Swallow heard That bids her leave the lands of summer For woods and ﬁelds where April yields Bleak welcome to the blithe newcomer? — 

trees are leaﬂess, and there are snow patches in nooks and corners; the air is laden with chilly gusts, but at noon a little softness creeps into it; the days, though gray, hold twelve hours of light, and the vernal equinox is at hand.

Come to the window, my friend, you who are going to spend some days, weeks, or months upon the bird—quest. You say that you see nothing but the bare trees, not even “the sun making dust and the grass growing green,” like sister Anne in the fairy tale. Open your window, or better still, go into the porch, for a procession is soon to pass, and you must hear the music. Listen! on the branch of the oak where the leaves still cling is the bugler, the Song Sparrow, calling through the silence, “They come! They come! They come! Prepare the way.”

Then presently, instead of tramping feet, you will hear the rustling of the innumerable wings of the bird army. Happy for you if it is a long time in passing and if a large part of it camps for the season. Usually it sends forward a few scouts, and then a company or two, before the brigade, clad in its faultless dress uniform, sweeps on, singing the greatest choral symphony of Nature,—the Spring Song.

There are many reasons, both of fact and of fancy, why it is best to begin the study of birds in the spring. The  