steeple, and along the wild, or from a naked
cliff, the raven bids us think about a sepulchre,
if we are superstitious. If we are reasonable
souls, it does not. Except when dogs are
fighting and on a few similar occasions, beasts,
birds, and insects are a happy set of fellows,
and "in Reason's ear they all rejoice." The
crow means to be jolly when he sings, as
thoroughly as any nightingale.

Then, Spring, if you had a fair claim on my
praises, I should not object to state that these
winged voices—rich, and abundant, and
varied, as they are, in the glades and groves
of our, on the whole, not disagreeable
country—make but a small portion of the
pleasant noise with which you are
accompanied. There is a voice from all things.
Emancipated from the wintry thraldom which
had claimed their waters (you perceive how
inappropriate the praise would be, when no
brook has been frozen), the streams are
murmuring through mead and valley; the trout
are leaping in their depths, and cattle lowing
on their banks. The bleat of the lamb comes
from the hill-side (mint is, happily, at the
same period fresh and green), and the laughter
of young human voices fills the sunny glade.
The doors of habitations stand wide open to
let in the air of heaven; the fireside—where
the poker stimulates no more the flagging
coal, and fires are dying of neglect—the fireside
is forsaken for the field; and the whistle
of the ploughman—painfully prone to perform
nigger melodies—comes cheerily from
the up-turned glebe. But the great Spring
minstrel is the Wind; wind music is the
sweetest. In the Spring it plays all kinds of
melodies; sometimes, a forest piece on its
trombones and bassoons; sometimes, a song
about a violet, upon one little piccolo. Man
laughs, and loves, and thinks, when the
Spring comes, with a more delicate expression.
In the Winter he had skated, or he
ought to have skated, roared over good jokes,
and enjoyed, when he was shut up in-doors,
a concentration of home jollity. Man's
general sympathy with external objects is, in
the presence of Spring, wholesomely set in
action; and the pervading sentiment of
resurrection is full to him of fine, unconsciously-
received suggestions. "In the motion of the
very leaves of Spring," says Shelley, "in the
blue air, there is found a secret correspondence
with our heart. There is eloquence in the
tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing
brooks, and the whistle of the reeds beside
them; which, by their inconceivable relation
to something within the soul, awaken the
spirits to a dance of breathless rapture, and
bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the
eyes—like the enthusiasm of patriotic success,
or the voice of one beloved, singing to you
alone."

Lists of fashionable arrivals are now
charged, I believe, as advertisements in
country papers. Whether birds are fashionable,
I am not quite sure, but perhaps I may
be allowed to risk incurring the expense of
duty upon the following list of movements
in what, I confess, must be admitted to be
high life, passed as it is, on tree tops, or in a
yet more elevated sphere. Pigeons move in
higher circles than even dukes and duchesses.
Liable, or not liable, to advertisement duty,
here is a list of movements in high life for
the present season.

Arrivals:—Wryneck, Reed Sparrow, Bunting,
Smallest Willow Wren, Stone Curlew,
Wheatear, House Swallow, Martin, Sand
Martin, Black-cap, Nightingale, Cuckoo,
Middle Willow Wren, Whitethroat, Redstart,
Grasshopper Lark, Swift, Lesser Reed
Sparrow, Land Rail, Fern Owl, Fly-catcher,
Turtle Dove, Ring Dotterell, Wagtail, Water
Rail, Largest Willow Wren, Lapwing, Tit-
lark, Razor-bill, Corncrake, Ring Ouzel,
Yellow Wren.

Departures:—Fieldfare, Redwing, Woodcock,
Hooded Crow, Snow Bunting, Widgeon,
Teal, Snipe, Merlin, Solan Goose, Grey Gull,
Cross-bill, Bean Goose, Herring Gull.

Spring is said to begin in March; meteorologists
say on one day, astronomers say on
another day; but I say, that Spring 1852 began
in November 1851. Spring has the Yankee
blood in her, and has annexed Winter; or,
at least, is infusing a Spring temper into it,
with a view to ultimate annexation.
However, let us take March. Let us look at
March. He used to have a little bluster in
him—to be something of a roaring blade.
Whether he has got married, or what else
may be the reason, I don't know; but all his
boast seems to be taken out of him. There
ought to be a wind-spirit abroad in March to
sweep the floor of heaven, preliminary to the
laying down of a fresh pavement of sunshine.
March ought, like a child, to play with flowers,
and destroy them in its wilfulness. If March
behaved like March, and, if I had no quarrel
with the Spring on other grounds, I would
speak of it somewhat after this fashion:
Wooed by its smile, some insect troop will
venture forth, too soon, to thread a maze in
honour of the welcome guest; and, ere they
have had time to try their glancing wings,
the frown succeeding to the smile, chases the
affrighted band, and they are scattered. In
its sunny moods a coronal of violets is given
to the child; but the wrathful fit comes on,
and the sweet toy is torn to pieces, trampled
beneath the foot of the capricious month.
Awakened by one of the bright flashes of its
laughing eyes, the bee looks out; and, thinking
it is summer, rushes abroad in coat of
gold, sounding his premature summons on his
tiny trumpet: but the wing of the snow-
spirit (which I strongly suspect Time of
having clipped with his scythe, some years
ago) shadows for a moment (or used to shadow
when it was big enough) the face of the youthful
month; and, unable to borrow the umbrella
of a single flower-cup, the false herald
perishes, the victim of his own mistake.