walled in on the west by a high and forest-crowned ridge; on the east
was the river, with a hundred foot fringe of noble trees, not yet
sacrificed to the axe of the woodsman. The sun was just above the tops
of the trees on the western ridge and long rays of slanting light came
pink across the river flood-plain, investing the tree-tops by the
shore with a soft and radiant light. Suddenly there came a plaintive
little note from the bottom of a near-by tree, instantly recognized as
a new note in the winter woods. Then another, and another, leading the
eyes to the foot of a big bass-wood, where a graceful bird, with a
beautiful blue back and a reddish brown breast, as if his coat had
been made of the bright blue sky and his vest of the shining red sand,
was hopping. The field glass brought him within ten feet. A bluebird,
sure enough! The first real, tangible sign of the spring that is to
be, the first voice from the southland telling us that spring is
coming up the valleys. There is no mistaking the brilliant blue, the
most beautiful blue in the Iowa year, unless it be the blue of the
fringed gentian in the fall; and the soft reddish, earthy breast
enhances the beauty of the brilliant back.

Another hopped into view; the female, doubtless, for both the blue and
the reddish brown were less brilliant. Every well-regulated bluebird
ought to be seen in the top of a tall elm or maple; but these seemed
to have no high-flying inclinations. Maybe they could read in the
clouds beneath the setting sun a prediction of the snow which came
that night. They stayed a few moments and then slowly hopped away and
were lost among the tree trunks. A further search only frightened a
prairie chicken from beneath a hawthorne bush, where he had meant to
pass the night; and the bluebirds were not seen again. But the sight
of bluebirds in Iowa on the nineteenth day of February is glory enough
for one day.