I hear late to-night the unspeakable rain mingled with rattling snow against the windows, preparing the ground for spring.
March 31, 1853. The robins sing at the very earliest dawn. I wake with their note ringing in my ear. 6 a. m. to Island by boat. . . . . 9 a. m. To Lincoln surveying for Mr. Austin. The catkins of the hazel are now trembling in the wind and much lengthened, showing yellowish and beginning to shed pollen. Saw and heard sing in a peach orchard my warbling vireo of the morning. It must be the fox-colored sparrow. It is plumper than a bluebird, tail fox-colored, a distinct spot on the breast, no bars visible on wings, beginning with a clear, rich, deliberate note, jingling more rapidly, much like the warbling vireo, at the end. I afterwards heard a fine concert of little songsters along the edge of the meadow, approached and watched and listened for more than half an hour. There were many little sparrows, difficult to detect, flitting and hopping along, and scratching the ground like hens under the alders, willows, and cornels, in a wet leafy place, occasionally alighting and preening themselves. They had bright bay crowns, two rather distinct white bars on wings, an ashy breast and dark tail. These twittered sweetly, in some parts very much like a canary and many to-
