And yonder bluebird with the earth tinge on his breast and the sky tinge on his back,—­did he come down out of the heaven on that bright March morning when he told us so softly and plaintively that, if we pleased, spring had come?  Indeed, there is nothing in the return of the birds more curious and suggestive than in the first appearance, or rumors of the appearance, of this little blue-coat.  The bird at first seems a mere wandering voice in the air:  one hears its call or carol on some bright March morning, but is uncertain of its source or direction; it falls like a drop of rain when no cloud is visible; one looks and listens, but to no purpose.  The weather changes, perhaps a cold snap with snow comes on, and it may be a week before I hear the not again, and this time or the next perchance see this bird sitting on a stake in the fence lifting his wing as he calls cheerily to his mate.  Its notes now become daily more frequent; the birds multiply, and, flitting from point to point, call and warble more confidently and gleefully.  Their boldness increases till one sees them hovering with a saucy, inquiring air about barns and out-buildings, peeping into dove-cotes and stable windows, inspecting knotholes and pump-trees, intent only on a place to nest.  They wage war against robins and wrens, pick quarrels with swallows, and seem to deliberate for days over the policy of taking forcible possession of one of the mud-houses of the latter.  But as the season advances they drift more into the background.  Schemes of conquest which they at first seemed bent upon are abandoned, and the settle down very quietly in their old quarters in remote stumpy fields.

Not long after the bluebird comes the robin, sometimes in March, but in most of the Northern States April is the month of the robin.  In large numbers they scour the fields and groves.  You hear their piping in the meadow, in the pasture, on the hillside.  Walk in the woods, and the dry leaves rustle with the whir of their wings the air is vocal with their cheery call.  In excess of joy and vivacity, they run, leap, scream, chase each other through the air, diving and sweeping among the trees with perilous rapidity.

In that free, fascinating, half-work and half-play pursuit,—­sugar-making,—­a pursuit which still lingers in many parts of New York, as in New England,—­the robin is one’s constant companion.  When the day is sunny and the ground bare, you meet him at all points and hear him at all hours.  At sunset, on the tops of the tall maples, with look heavenward, and in a spirit of utter abandonment, he carols his simple strain.  And sitting thus amid the stark, silent trees, above the wet, cold earth, with the chill of winter still in the air, there is no fitter or sweeter songster in the whole round year.  It is in keeping with the scene and the occasion.  How round and genuine the notes are, and how eagerly our ears drink them in!  The first utterance, and the spell of winter is thoroughly broken, and the remembrance of it afar off.