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Updated: May 10, 2025
Within and without the genial spirit of springtime cheered the heart of man and the heart of nature, and all things animate and inanimate sang the words of the poet. "Doves on the sunny eaves are cooing, The chip-bird trills from the apple-tree; Blossoms are bursting and leaves renewing, And the crocus darts up the spring to see.
While I write, I hear an oriole gay as in June, and the plaintive may-be of the goldfinch tells me he is stealing my lettuce-seeds. I know not what the experience of others may have been, but the only bird I have ever hard sing in the night has been the chip-bird. I should say he sang about as often during the darkness as cocks crow. One can hardly help fancying that he sings in his dreams.
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