IN April, as the world grows green apace, the disposition to ramble becomes daily more pronounced, and a fitting aim is to browse among bright meadows, culling here and there a thought-quickening blossom, and at times chancing suddenly upon a startling novelty that spurs our flagging fancy. Turning my back upon the town to-day, the river literally flashed into view and, imperiously demanding undivided attention, led me a willing captive. There is no feeling of self-debasement in being thus held helpless by a great natural force. If a river is not so powerful, as a whole, as mankind, it is none the less a commanding feature of the world at large, and worthy of high rank in leadership. Though it may speak in a foreign tongue, its orders are not to be misunderstood, and obedience thereto is ever well rewarded. In such a frame, drifting in my little boat, the river toyed with me, as it did with the little sand-pipers that played bo-peep with the waves. What marvellous variety crowds the little beach! Where I stranded, upon a long and narrow island, there was gold in abundance; yet gold that passes current only among nature's lovers. It was only the clustered bloom of caltha and the gilded spikes of orontium, but what did this matter? A coin would have been lost to view here and exchangeable for nothing.

When, in 1684, one William Watson, yeoman, of Nottinghamshire, England, ventured up the river in search of a home, he landed not far away and left recorded: “Here is not only a pleasant spot for a home, where toil will be rewarded, but a goodly spot wherein to rest." It is true, he might have had in mind a proper place in which to be buried, as under some one of the old oaks that overshadowed the river's winding shores, but I do not believe it. Give him credit for thinking of the closing hours of such April days as these, when the evening hymn of the thrush and plaint of drowsy finches should prove restful as sleep; at least it is a more pleasing fancy to think so. And now it would be charming to know if there is left Na single feature of the river upon which his eyes rested. It is scarcely probable; but, in the thankful spirit that moved Thoreau to be glad that man could not cut down the clouds, I am grateful that the same river gladdens the landscape in these later days.

Wheresoever we wander on land, nature, as the Indian knew it, must be sought after; here, on the river, we have the same sky above and waters beneath us. The bateau has replaced the canoe, but this is not a disturbing fact, and, whether we peer into the waves or gaze upward at the fleecy clouds, we have nature pure and undefiled. And, better, many a sweet sound that floats from the distant shores is the same that held old William Watson when on his homestead quest, and charmed, I hope, even the stolid Indian when on mischief bent. Warblers throng the willows; teetering sand-pipers call to their mates afar off; the thrush and blackbird whistle in wild glee; the weird cry of the unseen spirit duck trembles in the breeze; the air is filled with music.

Before a day's outing has well advanced, nature, as a whole, proves bewildering. It cannot be long continued in its entirety without fatigue, and the mind soon sinks to the level of specific observation. It is first a matter of choice, and then follows the exquisite pleasure of deciphering the purport of a single object. It was by mere chance, but, when again afloat, a spotted sand-piper passed very near and turned to look at me as it crossed the boat's bow. I caught the gay creature's bright and beady eye, and nodded in friendly recognition. I followed its course until lost in the glitter of distant ripples, and gave thought then only to these familiar birds as seen to-day and in years gone by. They are here now ahead of time. Ten days of summer weather and a waxing moon have wooed them northward, and, while May is almost a week off, they are hunting in their old-time haunts and threading the green pastures where they nested a year ago. It is strange that this bird is so little appreciated. There are even human fiends who eat them. Because they are not noisy like robins, or do not chatter and scold like Jenny Wren, the world gives them the go-by.

Hearing these sand-pipers everywhere along shore, I landed by a huge uprooted tree, and watched them as they came and went. How aptly they have caught the motion of the rippling water, and never venture more than to wet their feet! Their teetering motion is clearly protective here, where the pebbles are large and nowhere is the sand free from rubbish. Scan the shore as closely as one may, these birds are part and parcel of the little waves, and only at long intervals stand out in bold relief; appearing so suddenly that only emergence from the water seemed possible, as spring-tide swallows were supposed to do in olden time, — a belief, by the bye, not yet extinct.

It needs but a few minutes for sand-pipers to gain confidence, and soon they came within a few feet of the boat. Their eyes had all the merry glitter of the sunlit river. If they do not laugh, these birds do sing, for their clear voices are melodious by merit of the happiness that prompts each utterance. There was not to-day, and never is, a trace of ill humor about them, and they bow and bob even more when two or three are gathered together than when alone. Neither wind nor wave troubles them, their slender, sword-like wings cutting the thin air and bearing them to distant shores without a trace of languor. I have never seen them wearied or morose, as many a land-bird is apt to be. They touch the smooth sand so lightly as to leave scarcely a footprint, or perch upon a pebble so daintily that not thistle-down is readier to respond to the passing breeze than they to follow the whim that moves them. And, withal, they sing; a song of but two notes, it is true, but who that has heard it above the plash of waves, the sullen murmur of the pines, and the sighing of the gathering storm in the lofty treetops, but longs to hear it again, — a voice of sweet content and child-like confidence?

Unlike the great majority of the family of wading birds, to which it belongs, the spotted sand-piper is equally at home in the uplands, where the most commonplace of ponds and little way-side pools content it; and even by these its pretty nest is often placed. This, to be sure, is but a shallow depression in sandy ground, with scarcely enough grass to line it thoroughly; still, it is pretty, for the creamy eggs, with purple-brown blotches, stand out in bold relief, and are sure to attract attention, whether found by accident or as the result of nest-hunting. But all this pales to nothing in comparison to the newly-hatched young. These are the funniest little fellows extant. Not ludicrous because awkward, which is true of most young birds, but because of knowingness. They are quicker-witted than young quails, and ready to meet emergencies when scarcely more than a day old. I have knowledge of one cunning youngster that ran from tangled grass, as if fearing it might be trodden upon, into the water, and, using its mites of wings to guide it, swam for perhaps two yards, and then held on to the weeds with its feet. It was taken out by my informant's hand, after a submergence of several seconds, and came to the surface dry as a powder-horn. It would be well to know how often these birds take refuge from pursuing foes in this manner, and how long they can remain beneath the surface. Be it for a few seconds or a few minutes, it is interesting as bearing upon the fact that the ouzel has acquired the habit of hunting over the beds of brooks, and it has been held that such a habit must have been given when the bird was created, and not that either bird or habit could have gradually come upon the scene. The little sandpipers are a step in that direction, and he who objects to evolution now butts against a stone wall.

The while I have been wandering in mind, my body has travelled half a mile up stream. The tide, rising, lifted the boat and bore it away while my thoughts lingered on the shore among the sand-pipers, or flitted to other scenes and other days. There are now no birds in view, but their voices from the far-off shore still bear me company, and, bending to the oar against wind and tide, as the last glimmer of the setting sun gilds the waves, I speed homeward to cut another notch in the tally-stick of my memory of days out of doors.