The smaller birds—the little songsters of the woods，and those that haunt man’s dwellings， and claim humanfriendship by building their nests under the shelteringeaves， or among the orchard-trees—these require atouch more delicate and a gentler heart than mine， to dothem justice. Their outburst of melody is like a brooklet loose from wintry chains. We need not deem it a toohigh and solemn word， to call it a hymn of praise to theCreator； since Nature， who pictures the reviving year inso many sights of beauty， has expressed the sentiment ofrenewed life in no other sound， save the notes of theseblessed birds. Their musick， however， just now， seems tobe incidental， and not the result of a set purpose. Theyare discussing the economy of life and love， and the siteand architecture of their summer residences， and haveno time to sit on a twig， and pour forth solemn hymns，or overtures， operas， symphonies， and waltzes. Anxiousquestions are asked； grave subjects are settled in quickand animated debate； and only by occasional accident， asfrom pure ecstasy， does a rich warble roll its tiny waves ofgolden sound through the atmosphere. Their little bodiesare as busy as their voices； they are in a constant flutterand restlessness. Even when two or three retreat to a treetop，to hold council， they wag their tails and heads all thetime， with the irrepressible activity of their nature， whichperhaps renders their brief span of life in reality as long asthe patriarchal age of sluggish man. The black-birds， threespecies of which consort together， are the noisiest of allour feathered citizens. Great companies of them—morethan the famous “four-and-twenty，” whom Mother Goosehas immortalized—congregate in contiguous tree-tops，and vociferate with all the clamor and confusion of aturbulent political meeting. Politics， certainly， must be theoccasion of such tumultuous debates； but still—unlike allother politicians—they instil melody into their individualutterances， and produce harmony as a general effect. Of allbird-voices， none are more sweet and cheerful to my earthan those of swallows， in the dim， sun-streaked interiorof a lofty barn； they address the heart with even a closersympathy than Robin Redbreast. But， indeed， all thesewinged people， that dwell in the vicinity of homesteads，seem to partake of human nature， and possess the germ， ifnot the developement， of immortal souls. We hear themsaying their melodious prayers， at morning’s blush andeventide. A little while ago， in the deep of night， therecame the lively thrill of a bird’s note from a neighboringtree； a real song， such as greets the purple dawn， ormingles with the yellow sunshine. What could the littlebird mean， by pouring it forth at midnight？ Probably themusic gushed out of the midst of a dream， in which hefancied himself in Paradise with his mate， but suddenlyawoke on a cold， leafless bough， with a New-England mistpenetrating through his feathers. That was a sad exchangeof imagination for reality！
Insects are among the earliest births of spring. Multitudes，of I know not what species， appeared long ago， on the surfaceof the snow. Clouds of them， almost too minute for sight，hover in a beam of sunshine， and vanish， as if annihilated，when they pass into the shade. A musquitoe has alreadybeen heard to sound the small horror of his bugle-horn.
Wasps infest the sunny windows of the house. A beeentered one of the chambers， with a prophecy of flowers.
Rare butterflies came before the snow was off， flauntingin the chill breeze， and looking forlorn and all astray， inspite of the magnificence of their dark velvet cloaks， withgolden borders.
The fields and wood-paths have as yet few charms toentice the wanderer. In a walk， the other day， I foundno violets nor anemones， nor anything in the likenessof a flower. It was worth while， however， to ascend ouropposite hill， for the sake of gaining a general idea of theadvance of spring， which I had hitherto been studying inits minute developements. The river lay around me in asemi-circle， overflowing all the meadows which give it itsIndian name， and oflfering a noble breadth to sparkle inthe sunbeams. Along the hither shore， a row of trees stoodup to their knees in water； and afar off， on the surface ofthe stream， tufts of bushes thrust up their heads， as itwere， to breathe. The most striking objects were greatsolitary trees， here and there， with a mile-wide waste ofwater all around them. The curtailment of the trunk， by itsimmersion in the river， quite destroys the fair proportionsof the tree， and thus makes us sensible of a regularity andpropriety in the usual forms of nature. The flood of thepresent season—though it never amounts to a freshet， onour quiet stream—has encroached farther upon the landthan any previous one， for at least a score of years. It hasoverflowed stone-fences， and even rendered a portion ofthe highway navigable for boats.
The waters， however， are now gradually subsiding；islands become annexed to the mainland； and other islandsemerge， like new creations， from the watery waste. Thescene supplies an admirable image of the receding of theNile—except that there is no deposit of black slime； —orof Noah’s flood—only that there is a freshness and noveltyin these recovered portions of the continent， which givethe impression of a world just made， rather than of oneso polluted that a deluge had been requisite to purify it.
These upspringing islands are the greenest spots in thelandscape； the first gleam of sunlight suffices to coverthem with verdure.
Thank Providence for Spring！ The earth—and manhimself， by sympathy with his birth-place—would be farother than we find them， if life toiled wearily onward，without this periodical infusion of the primal spirit. Willthe world ever be so decayed， that spring may not renewits greenness？ Can man be so dismally age-stricken， thatno faintest sunshine of his youth may revisit him oncea year？ It is impossible. The moss on our time-wornmansion brightens into beauty； the good old pastor，who once dwelt here， renewed his prime， regained hisboyhood， in the genial breezes of his ninetieth spring. Alasfor the worn and heavy soul， if， whether in youth or age，it have outlived its privilege of springtime sprightliness！
From such a soul， the world must hope no reformationof its evil—no sympathy with the lofty faith and gallantstruggles of those who contend in its behalf. Summerworks in the present， and thinks not of the future； Autumnis a rich conservative； Winter has utterly lost its faith， andclings tremulously to the remembrance of what has been；but Spring， with its outgushing life， is the true type of theMovement！
