On the west side of my yard lies a cultivated field, beyond which
stands an ancient apple orchard; on the east the yard is hedged by a
tract of sprout-land which is watched over by a few large pines; at
the north, behind the house and garden, runs a wall of chestnut and
oak, which ten years ago would have been cut but for some fortunate
legal complication. Such is the character of the whole neighborhood.
Patches of wood and swamp, pastures, orchards, and gardens, cut in
every direction by roads and paths, and crossed by one tiny
stream--this is the circle of the thirty-six.
Not one of these nests is beyond a stone's throw from a house. Seven
of them, indeed, are in houses or barns, or in boxes placed about the
dooryards; sixteen of them are in orchard trees; and the others are
distributed along the roads, over the fields, and in the woods.
Among the nearest of these feathered neighbors is a pair of bluebirds
with a nest in one of the bird-boxes in the yard. The bluebirds are
still untamed, building, as I have often found, in the wildest spots
of the woods; but seen about the house, there is something so
reserved, so gentle and refined in their voice and manner as to shed
an atmosphere of good breeding about the whole yard. What a contrast
they are to the English sparrows! What a rebuke to city manners!
[Illustration: "They are the first to return in the spring."]
They are the first to return in the spring; the spring, rather, comes
back with them. They are its wings. It could not come on any others.
If it tried, say, the tanager's, would we believe and accept it? The
bluebird is the only possible interpreter of those first dark signs of
March; through him we have faith in the glint of the pussy-willows, in
the half-thawed peep of the hylas, and in the northward flying of the
geese. Except for his return, March would be the one month of all the
twelve never looked at from the woods and waysides. He comes, else we
should not know that the waters were falling, that a leaf could be
plucked in all the bare, muddy world.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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