THE first expanded blossom on the tree at once calls up a vision of the perfect fruit. The cherries of June and peaches of August and all that they mean are enjoyed in anticipation, because of the fluttering white or pink blossom that dots the still dreary landscape.

How far the realization will fill the crowded picture of our spring-tide fancy it boots not to consider. It is the end of winter now, and let what joy comes of the thought be unalloyed. Of itself, the present time is not alluring, but precious by reason of its promises. Doubt is out of place if pleasure is our aim, and to seek for intimations that come to the front, even while yet ice and snow prevail, may happily fill the short hours of a winter ramble.

The drooping branches of the leafless larch, as I see it from afar, are dreary beyond words. Every twig is of so dull and rusty a hue that one can think only of decay and death. But, drawing nearer, a faint blush overspreads it all, and when I stand beneath the tree, every twig bears a roseate blossom that has no lovelier rival in the bowers of June. We stand too far aloof and wait until the new birth is quite accomplished. There has been a potent but unobtrusive force long at work, unsuspected because unheralded by blare of trumpets; and we, shutting ourselves from Nature, cry “dreary, dreary," because of lack of knowledge and lack of faith.

Where the rocks shelter from the wind, and catch the mid-day sunbeams, I turn the heaped-up leaves that have lain since autumn and find green growths are everywhere. Pale spring-beauties are even now in bud, and the purple myrtle offers us its simple flowers as a proof that winter has ceased to kill. The rank leaf-growth of the sassafras is of fresher tint than a month ago, and prince's-pine flourishes even in the shadow of a snow-bank. In the swamps, at the very name of which so many shudder, the skunk-cabbage is well above the ground, and far above them, where there is no shelter from the cutting north wind, the buds of the brave maples are ruddy. Even the chilly waters are not without promise, and that dainty, crimson-decked creature, the fairy shrimp, lights up the shady pool with flashes of brilliant color. We have but to look and listen. Many a wood-bird has abundant faith, and far off among the cedars I hear the love-call of the black-cap, and that sweetest of all sounds, the anticipatory warble of the bluebird. To hear this is to be well repaid, whatever you may have undergone. It soothes the smart of every pricking thorn. What fairy structure will not rise at the mind's bidding and shape itself a thing of beauty to the bluebird's song! Nature, here where I stand, is in truth repulsively brutal; the margin of the swamp is but scattered ruins of last winter's storms; but how the jagged edges round off and meet their neighbors! how green the dead rushes grow! how quickly the naked branches of a lone tree bend to the little arbor of my early home, while that song of songs fills all the upper air! The song of the bluebird works a greater miracle than any magician's wand.

The river is near by, and across the meadows and beyond the wood I see, floating high overhead and darkly limned against the leaden sky, restless gulls that have wandered from the sea. The naturalist has not yet shown that they have aught to do with any change, but they are oftener seen now than when all signs of winter have disappeared. This of late years; but it was not always so. In the long ago of colonial days, and when the Dutch even were the only white people on the Delaware, gulls were as frequent here as swallows in midsummer. But something closer in touch with intimations is near at hand: a flock of red-winged blackbirds. Their keen senses have detected the whispered promise, and we may well believe with them that spring is not afar off. True, the north winds may come again, laden with snow and ice, but their fury will be in vain; no material damage will be wrought, and in the contest between frost and fire, the sun will come off more than conqueror.

It is a strange habit that the rambler falls into, this of merely cataloguing. Signs of spring! These I came to look for, but why not rest content when they have been found? Is not one flower and one song enough? In such a matter, having one swallow, you can make the summer. The merit of this, the last day of February, is that it is inexpressibly dismal. A chilling northeast storm prevails. The woods moan; the marsh is wrapped in fog; over the river race the white-capped waves; the scream of the gulls and cry of despairing crows cause me to shudder, — but for a moment. Safe by a lordly oak, I can laugh at the storm, and did laugh when, in its sheltered nook, a song-sparrow saw or felt or heard the promise of springtide's milder sway, and sang his sweetest of sweet summer songs.

Not a creature of all the varied forms of wild life but may have its own almanac and unwritten rules of forecasting the weather. Many a bird or beast or fish but may be our superior in this, and it is little of merit to be only our equal.

If there be — and who can doubt it — pleasure in anticipation, likewise there is in seeking out an intimation in these matters of nature, and, securing it, spend the hours in contemplation. This is a subtle form of fancy that defies description. A plaguing “what of it?” thrusts itself forward at every discovery you make, and the predetermined wish to be a poet whenever a flower was found or bird sang vanishes. Wrapped in a stout coat, behind a grand old oak, and not weary from long tramping, the outlook seems favorable for indulging in some grand flight; but no, the flower would not lead me, nor the bird's song suggest a single thought. It was vexing at first, but should not have been. I had my pleasant thoughts as I wandered, and what more could I ask? It is too soon to discuss even the promises of the coming year; far too soon to consider the fruit thereof. It was but an intimation that was offered when I ventured into the field, and this is too delicate to be dissected; and, to do it justice, we must dream of it, not wrangle over it.

The day draws to a close, but not the storm; yet I have not lost faith. The flower is still mine, and the songs of the brave birds still linger. Surely spring is near at hand when Nature, that so often laughs at our puny efforts to force her to speak out, comes unasked from hidden haunts and vouchsafes us intimations.

A week later: It is not wise to expect much of March, for then every slight favor she grants will be appreciated the more. Such a favor was the seventh of the month. It brought a bee to the flowering whitlow-grass, and at sunrise a wasp was battering against the window-pane. The sky was blue-black and with not a cloud visible. This was sufficient of an invitation to survey the ruin wrought by the still lingering but now listless winter. Before the town was actively astir I was beyond its limits. The maples were more ruddy than a week ago, and daffodils were up. Even a stray spring -beauty dared look out. Better than all else, the blackbirds were prospecting; and over the swamp and along the river red-wings and grakles were holding a convention. No, not this, but rather, informally, discussing the outlook. The crows only, I take it, are so far methodical as to hold a convention. This they are known to do annually, and, so far as practicable, in the same places and at the same times. Such a gathering is well worth witnessing. Godman has given us, in his "Rambles of a Naturalist," a vivid account of the crows of ninety years ago, and what he found to say then is applicable now, except in the matter of numbers. He speaks of millions of crows near Bristol, Pennsylvania, but I have never seen so many as one thousand gathered together since living here. Now, to see more than one hundred on the marshes at low tide is an unusual sight. He accords them a considerable degree of intelligence, and we can read between the lines that he wished to use stronger terms than he did. He need not have feared contradiction. Admiring their cunning, and convinced of their advanced mental power as compared to other birds, he, strangely enough, felt he was doing the world a service in stooping to be their murderer. At least, where love of nature and wild life in all its phases is strongly developed, we might suppose the insane desire to kill would be effectually restrained.

Crows talk, it is true, in an unknown tongue, but their gestures are translatable. The energy with which the leaders lay down the law, or, if arguing, make telling speeches, is unmistakable, and the acquiescence or disapproval of the audience, as the case may be, cannot be misconstrued. Whoever has been at a large political meeting and heard the half-whispered “that's so" that fills the room when the orator makes a hit, will readily recognize the subdued ca-a-a that is simultaneously uttered by the whole assembly when a more than usually emphatic caw caw! rings through the tree-tops. Such a crow convention is said to be a sign of spring, and on such a day as this one can well accept it as such. But here an ugly fact crops out that robs the saying of its poetry: the convention is much more regular than the season, and when, as sometimes happens, we have no spring, the crows convene just the same.

There were crows to-day, but only about the river, where, by reason it may be of unconscious imitation, they rose and fell, swooped and curved with all the grace of the gulls, with which they associated. But the blackbirds were the feature of the day, and a chorus from a thousand throats should, as it did, draw the sting of winter from the air. Bird music will warm the chilliest of days, because of our ever associating it only with spring or summer. Not that we should do so, for there are scores of winter birds that make the dreary way-sides ring with gladness. Like the crows, they did not only sing but chatted volubly, doubtless discussing the weather, and so showing, by the bye, that men and birds have one mental trait in common. A general knowledge of prearranged plans as a flock was surely a common possession; for when they moved, it was no uncertain, aimless drifting from point to point. Presumably a signal was given, for they took wing almost as one creature, and, without breaking ranks, crossed the river to the pines that loomed up black and gloomy on the Jersey shore. Do these flocks have leaders? It is a fair question. Many of their movements suggest it, but the ornithologist is yet to be born who can point out the chosen bird or any of his lieutenants. If not guided by some one or more of their numbers, then there would appear to be a phase of animal intelligence unlike anything human. Certainly a thousand men, or half that number, could not move together without clashing, except they be controlled by acknowledged leaders.

What I hoped for was to witness an upward spiral flight of the principal flock. This is a rare occurrence, I judge, and does not appear to have been commented upon. Imagine a gigantic screw, some five hundred feet in length and of proportionate diameter, standing on its head, and half a thousand blackbirds, in a long and narrow band, starting from the ground and following the thread of the screw. Occasionally a line of dense white smoke will describe much the same figure. When the maximum height is reached a circular course is followed until the birds are all upon the same plane, when, as a huge black blanket, the flock returns to the ground.

Whatever may be said of blackbirds now, the north-bound geese have their leaders, and if their sonorous honking reaches our ears, one does not think of the bitterness of wild March mornings. This is one of those thoroughly thrilling sounds that quickens the pulse and leads us a long way towards realizing what the world about us really means. When the river was wild and wild men only dwelt about it, this call of the geese was a familiar sound, and one that makes me envious of early colonial days. Think of it! Nils Gustafson, a Swede, above ninety years of age, assured Peter Kalm, in 1748, that he had killed twenty- three ducks at a shot; but now (in 1748) you were forced to ramble about all day and perhaps not see but three or four. It is marvellous that a duck ever appears on the Delaware now, and yet there are often very many to be seen, and he who is awake early or out late can hear the over-flying geese, and possibly see them, when fog-bound on the river. Wildness is not yet quite an unknown element, even though man, for two centuries, has been trying to rub it out.

Much is missed by those who value a bird merely because of its fine song or bright feathers. Here, in the valley of the Delaware, such birds are in the minority; but the great host of songless and plainly-dressed birds have compensating merits. Many a bird is cunning to a degree, and needs but to be watched a little closely to be appreciated for its winsome ways. There is now a merry flock of tree-sparrows in the cedars that do little but chatter in matters vocal, and offer only a color-study of blended browns and black; but see these birds when at leisure, playing bo-peep in the dead grasses on the meadow; see them flutter and scold the venturesome meadow-mice as they dart along their run-ways, and a whole chapter of delightful bird-life is opened up to you. The nuthatch can only fret and scold, so it would seem; but when it ventures to peep into the nest of a gray squirrel, and darts back, startled by the wide-awake occupant, it can chatter so glibly that we know it has something like a sense of humor.

Watch, too, the wondering kinglets that are half frightened when the white-footed mouse peeps from his bush-nest or threads his way daintily along the tangled maze of greenbrier. This dainty creature, the prettiest of all our mammals, is nocturnal in habit, yet not even the brightest sunshine blinds it, and when it does venture abroad in daylight there is apt to be great excitement among the gatherings of our smaller winter birds, and these little kinglets in particular, that love their sun-bath so dearly, are more than roused to energy by the animal's appearance. Their softly-uttered song — for they sing only to themselves — gives way to emphasis strongly suggestive of the little house-wren's well-known profanity.

Clearly, even in March, bright days may be over-full; and yet often we fancy much is lacking. We continually make unjust demands. To-day the river did not look chilly and so repellent; more than one water-plant was growing thriftily, and by the pebbly beach was a faint suspicion of the spice-wood's golden bloom; but where were the frogs? I listened in vain, and, at last, to make good my want, rattled the shaggy bark of an old oak with my cane, and fancied I heard the first frogs of the season. How true it is, the shortest journey a man can take is when in search of a fool! Turning from the tree to the river, I saw my face reflected on its quiet surface.

Whether we see many sights or few; hear the rejoicings of every wild-wood bird, or but the song of a single warbler, if that winged centenarian, with his scythe and hour-glass, old Father Time, would only take a rest such a day as this, the world would be the gainer.

Still later:

The intimations of February become substantial promises long before the close of March, but how human are they! The chances are good that every promise will be broken. The big snowstorm of the season came last night, and, by the almanac, spring commences to-morrow. It will begin terribly handicapped; but mankind seems more disturbed than the birds, for on the maples there are song-sparrows that sing their May-day melodies, and from the upper air comes the hopeful whistle of the robin. This is well, so far as it goes; but the snow is a set-back, do what we will. It is a contradiction; a confusing of familiar things; a condition that is repugnant, in spite of novelty, to dig your spring flowers from a snowbank; but this was the only way, on and after March 18.

March skies, March atmosphere, midwinter earth: these the conditions now; and no wonder that my companion asked, “What have you to say of intimations of spring to-day?" Everywhere endless acres of snow-clad fields, huge drifts by the river-shore, and, beyond, that glittering, steel-blue water that is far colder than any ice. I looked about for maple blossoms, but they were tightly closed and brown. The larch had hidden its promises of spring-tide, and there was nothing to be said. The world had rolled backward many a week and left its champion confounded. Not a syllable could be uttered in defence of such conditions. March may play fast and loose as it chooses, but a murrain seize its black art that can call midwinter back. Nevertheless, must the rambler sit down in despair because of all this? We made for the river-shore in spite of the free scope of the cutting wind, for if life was astir at all it was likelier here than on the fields. It proved so. My companion's question, “What's that?" and my exclamation of "A seal!" were uttered at the same instant, and straightway the bad weather was forgiven and forgotten.

To have this creature twice lift its head above the water and then disappear proved the “presto, change!” of the wonder-workers when I was young. I could have welcomed the north pole then and there. It is a matter of a single seal, and at long intervals now, thousands crowding every rock and raft of ice a few thousands of years ago. To-day, a civilized man gazing in wonder at a solitary creature, — formerly here roamed savage men that largely fed upon their oily carcasses. Who can fathom the meaning of these changes of the centuries: these gains and losses of a half-score of millenniums? Man mightier, wiser, happier, it ,may be; and yet the March winds stir the lingering trace of savagery in us all, and we are, for the moment, wild as the flashing waves that hurry by. What a change! Now but a single seal; but time was when not only seals, but the walrus, roamed the ancient river, and the mastodon and reindeer, moose and musk-ox, lingered upon its shores.

The effect of sudden changes of the weather upon animal life is one of the few subjects that have not been written to death, possibly because they have not been closely studied; and to add to the difficulty, these changes are often quite as sudden and short-lived as the conditions that produced them. It would certainly seem so in the case of migratory birds, and more prominently so in that of occasional visitors. No one, I venture to assert, has been so fortunate as to see a snow-bunting, the northern white snow-finch, during the past winter; yet a whole host of them suddenly appeared at the close of the storm, and disappeared quite as quickly as they came. Not once this year have I seen a cross-bill when peering into the thick-set cedars or watching the myriads of small birds that frequent the pines; yet a dead one was picked up in a lane near by. Where did they come from? Just beyond the outskirts of every region there are novelties that only the favored few who never rest from rambling occasionally see. How quickly the Canadian fauna can overlap its bounds and make, literally, a flying visit to Carolinian territory and return is one of those features of bird-life not of importance in itself, but as certain to excite wonderment as its occurrence gives pleasure to those who witness it.

Why, then, complain at this return of winter? It quickens the pulse, and that, too, of every bird that braves its rigors. This is a soothing thought. It is worth wading knee-deep through a snowbank to hear the cardinal red-bird whistle. There is one now perched near the river-bank, and his clear notes float even across the wide waters, and that faint melody that the wind brings from the opposite shore is, I fancy, the answering call of another of his kind.

Fill, then, the river valley with music, and what matters it if the fields are frozen, the trees droop with frost, and the winds struggle to drown the exulting songs of wild life defiant?