MAY-DAY! It is a sluggish heart that does not give a livelier bound at the very mention of the word. May-day; and never a brighter and breezier one than this of 1890. Even the caged canary knew the time, and by dawn was offering a ringing welcome to the advancing sun. I fancied there was music even in the alien sparrow's chirp; but, without stopping to determine, hurried along the almost silent streets, eager for the fields, the woods, the meadow, and the misty river-shore. Beyond the city's bounds the whole world was at its best; green grass, bright foliage, a pale-blue sky, and north-bound warblers everywhere.

Birds are not given to consult the almanac, but it is fitting that the myriad songsters that we have missed for months should appear in force upon this magic date, May I; and so it was this year. Seldom have I seen so many at one time. A long-neglected field was the first spot at which a halt was made, and it was a happy thought to linger in and about the tall weeds, remnants of last year's growth, and the sturdy bushes that filled the angles of an old worm-fence. Here were sparrows in abundance. Not the unfortunate importations, but our native ones. Song-sparrows were ecstatic, field-sparrows exultant, white-throats demonstrative, and the delightful chippers joyous. It was a competitive concert, each claiming my undivided attention and admiration, and the contestants receiving my impartial approbation. No other thought than that of making merry seemed to enter the busy brains of any bird, so how could I do otherwise than say each was perfect, and so was each. It appeared as if none could be omitted without marring the effect. As a concert it was perfect, and would have repaid the rambler had silence for the whole day succeeded it. But this was not to be. Pausing for a moment, as if by common consent, the brief interval was seized by a rose-breasted grosbeak that perched upon the slender top of a tapering cedar and gave himself up to song. Every feather trembled, and, bowing and bending to the world below, melody poured from his brilliant throat and flooded earth and air. It was a happy thought on the part of the bird, for scarcely had he ceased when the first level rays of the rising sun smote his gorgeous breast. Truly, May-day had had an auspicious opening.

What a suggestive spot to others than those on natural history bent is an old field; the scene of busy husbandry when our grandfathers were young: now an open common, a bare, bold, half-deserted tract, its sad fate to become a town-lot! Soon to be cut and carved until beyond recognition. Once a forest, and so truly grand; then a field, and but little less impressive; now, as a common, little better than a desert; the last step, a heap of dirt!

There are traces yet of the last furrows that were turned, and the broken ridges in the sod are not all hidden by the straggling weeds that have succeeded the corn. As I trace the old headland, where for a century the brier-embowered fence had stood, I find the sturdy growths of poison-ivy still lingering, but with no support but the ground, except where, these many years, a battered apple-tree has withstood the assaults of whole troops of boys.

To find every trace of fruitfulness gone, and a poisonous weed representing it, is a depressing experience, one that dims even a brilliant May-day; yet why should it? Is it not too commonplace an occurrence to excite comment? Whether an old farm or an old friend, it is too often a matter of poison-ivy at last.

The grass is still glistening with the morning dew, but the bees are astir, — humming can it be contentedly? — over such poor pasture. Mean beyond compare are the flowers of this one-time field, and but a single buttercup is within sight. There are weeds, though, that thrive upon ill treatment, and shrubs so hardy they withstand neglect. The village cows cannot tramp all bloom out of existence, and a bit of chickweed or a mat of whitlow-grass here and there star the stunted grass. But where is the honey for the patient bees? Surely not in such flowers as these, and their beauty alone is not an attraction; beauty that needs a magnifier that man may see it. Is it an inherited instinct that brings the bees? Scarcely that; but the day was when the blooming clover tempted the whole hive.

Everywhere there is ruin nature cannot wholly conceal. The old apple-tree is the last vestige of an orchard, and beyond it, where the ground slightly rises, are the scattered stones of a foundation-wall. Better than these, even, to recall the past, there grows a dwarfed lilac-bush hard by, with no other evidence of life than a few half-expanded leaves. Wild life, save the few birds and omnipresent insects, has long since disappeared, and this it is makes the song of every sparrow heard to-day sad, when we pause to think of what has been. The sparrow now perched on the lone lilac sings sweetly as ever, but what of the merry host that thronged the vanished lilac hedge and dreamed of no better world than the cottage garden of nigh a century ago? Then the morning songs of merry birds fell not upon deaf ears here, where the farmer lived far from the town, and his fields on every side were weighted with the award of toil. But we must bow to the inevitable. The growing town is inexorable, and to mourn a dismantled farm is mawkish sentimentality. Another May-day will be celebrated here, not by the songs of birds, but by the grating of saws and thud of the hammer. New habitations will arise upon the ruins of the old, and still longer become the town-dweller's tramp ere he reaches the open country. The naturalist's last chance at this spot will then be when the earth is upturned and a cellar dug; when, perchance, relics of the Indians, or bones of the animals the dusky hunters slew, will hold him for the day; or some local historian may air his knowledge over the belongings of other days, — a rusty ploughshare or a well-worn coin. As I now stand listening to the songs of birds, — their farewell concert it may be, — I fancy that I see a troop of graybeards hobbling hither to watch the building of a new house, and, gathering about some trivial trace of other days, hear their leader say, “Here was my father's farm some fifty years ago."

And now to the near woods. Not even the glorious grosbeak's matchless song could hold me, and the sun gilded the sorrow of the lonely field. I feared that I might fall to serious thinking, even on a May-day, when I would shout and sing. There were other pastures in which to browse, and from them I would cull sweets free from the slightest trace of bitterness.

With eager steps, brushing the dew from buttercups, a few scattered oaks were soon reached that as yet but hinted of their bright, broad leaves. Not so the densely-clustered trees beyond. These already shut from the mossy paths beneath the sun's rays, leaving in cool, gray light the snowy blossoms of dentaria, pale-blue houstonia, and pink spring-beauty. The change from field to forest was not abrupt, and yet was startling. All had appealed to the ear before, now nature appealed only to the eye. Not birds and blossoms, as the rambler would ever have it, but from birds to blossoms, — from tuneful to silent beauty. It is doubtful if nature in America presents a more charming spectacle than the fresh green foliage of a forest. The shadows beneath it are not harshly defined; the straggling sunbeams light up the crooked paths, even to the winter run-ways of the mice and rabbits; there is no hint of gloom, as in midsummer. Nor is the wood but an expanse of mottled green. The snowy dog-wood, the blooming cherry, and violet-mantled knolls give that variety we crave when we look at nature as a whole rather than single features of it.

But the woods were not deserted. Scarcely a tree was without its attendant warblers. These are essentially May-day birds. There are many that remain throughout the summer, more than one that is with us during winter; but now the great host are upon us, the greater number bound northward to Maine, Canada, and beyond. These birds are widely different, yet the family likeness running through all is very marked. To-day they were abroad in full force, and such marvellous energy and unceasing motion are not seen elsewhere in the bird-world. Swallows may be more swift, the humming-bird out-speed them; but with the warblers it is not mere flight, but the gymnastic climbing and somersaulting, over and above every twig of every tree, that shows how absolutely tireless these birds are. Nor are they silent. Faint, but not listless, melody ripples from their breasts, whether in mid-air, seeking new hunting-grounds, or busy with the food their sharp eyes have spied out in the crannies of rough bark. Not all keep to the tree-tops. There is one, the Maryland yellow-throat, that loves the swampy ground, with its rank growth of symplocarpus and arum, and few finer song-birds have we than this, if we judge bird music by its associations.

It is hard to choose among them, but I hold in high regard the bay-breasted warblers that come and go with such delightful uncertainty. It was not May-day, but nearly three weeks later, that I chanced in these woods a year ago. It might well have been called Warbler-day, so abundant were these dainty birds. To watch them was bewildering, to single out any one well-nigh impossible. As I stood by a group of four large tulip-trees, that towered above the surrounding oaks, I heard a merry twitter that sounded from above, and, while clear and distinct, was distant. It came from the tall trees, and there, sure enough, were a host of these beauties, fly-catching on the outskirts of creation. In the clear sunlight their contrasted colors showed well, but the moment they entered the shade each was black as ebony. Not one would come near me; none came within thirty or forty feet from the ground. So far, a most commonplace occurrence; but, with that abruptness that bewilders the on-looker, these warblers suddenly disappeared. Not a trace of them anywhere, though I searched most diligently: for aught I knew, they had dissolved into the thin air in which they had been sporting.

Merely a coincidence, doubtless, but this is a foundation we all build upon. Late in the evening of that day, while sitting before a film of smoke that half hid the andirons, there came a tapping at the window, loud enough to suggest Poe's raven, and, when the sash was raised, in came a bay-breasted warbler. There was no bust of Pallas for it; and, after flitting aimlessly in the dim light, it rested on the head of a stuffed owl. The yielding feathers offered no foothold, and it perched next upon my table, twittered as if half afraid, and then darted back into the night. Did it come with a message from its fellows and forget or fear to deliver it? We will never know, but I hold them now above other warblers and await their communication. How many secrets do the birds withhold? Is there one that we can fully comprehend? This bay -breasted fairy is a lover of tall trees, and seldom deigns to descend even to the lower branches; yet I have twice had them peer into my face since one entered my study. There is a bond between us, yet of its import I know nothing. None the less does it bind me, and I have an inkling now of the mystery of superstition. Such trivial coincidences as I have mentioned have affected my whole life, and why not others? To injure a bay-breasted warbler would be murder on my part. Beyond the woods were the river-skirting meadows. There is much in a name, after all. Meadow and May-day fit well together, and he who now sees the low-lying reaches of green pasture and treacherous marsh, perhaps sees them at their best. Possibly this has been said of these same meadows seen at other seasons, but something must be allowed for May-day enthusiasm. We are under a new order of things now, and abrupt changes always lead to extravagant expressions. Spring has been relegated to mythology; is a pretty play thing for the folk-lore student. It is a long time since we have had a real winter, and April of this year was once white with snow, and wore a frosty mantle oftener than did March; but to-day, May-day, it is summer. If there is any meaning in temperature, in the condition of vegetation, in the activity of animal life, then summer reached us during the past night. She came with the whippoorwill, as, according to the Indians, she always does. What could have given rise to the idea of a whole season sandwiched between winter and summer?

As so often happens, the reckless profusion of attractions was bewildering, and every one with merit worthy of undivided attention. It is well to be a specialist in such a place. He is the happier botanist who never hears a bird sing. This morning, in and about the marshes, little and great frogs vied with each other in shouting the merits of May-day. The shrill, fife-like notes of some, the rattling click of others, and the deep bass of batrachian patriarchs proved a mighty chorus, that impressed if it did not charm. Think of frogs, perhaps tens of thousands to an acre, and each screeching, roaring, whistling at its best! These creatures have an object in all this, but what? The naturalists say these sounds are love-calls; but what of affection as violent as their cacophonous announcement of it? What if the tender human swain proposed through a fog-horn, and his lady replied with a steam-whistle? But in an instant the meadows were silent. Not a frog whimpered. In wonderment I looked about, and saw nothing amiss but the shadow of a cloud; and this, doubtless, had been the cause. Could it have been associated in their minds with the shadows cast by passing birds, as the herons and bittern, their greatest enemies? This is giving the frogs credit for considerable wit, but not more than is their due.

Soon the great roaring recommenced, and again as suddenly ceased. No shadow of a cloud disturbed them then, but a gentle breeze, that swept over the water with great speed, leaving a chill behind it. It would seem as if the day's outing must abruptly close. With folded arms, and back resting against a sturdy oak, it was not so doleful an incident after all, even on May-day, to look across the meadows while it rained. The swallows were in ecstasies; the hawks screamed with delight; robins replied to the distant thunder; and now, as if assured that no danger threatened them, the frogs joined in their mighty chorus once again. Surely for many minutes the lovers of Wagnerian music would have been entranced.

The shower was of short duration, and a happy incident, for beauty emerging from a bath is ever engaging. While waiting for this the time sped happily. The huge oak that sheltered me has no history, it is true, being a growth of this quiet Indian and staid Quaker country, but no tree needs such fortuitous aid to render it an object of admiration. Here on the meadows oaks replace rocks, and are scarcely less an evidence of the world's stability. The rocks have their history plainly written upon them; but what of the chafed and gnarly branches of the primeval oaks? what of the murmuring breezes that I now hear, and the scream of the winters' storms that has been so often sounded? Truly, the autobiography of an oak would be rare reading. And yet, so strongly implanted is our belief in man's transcendent importance that trees with a human history outvie all others. Let us be sure that a tragedy — even a disgusting one — was enacted beneath its branches, and the gaping crowd will be blind to all else the forest contains. What boots it that some truly great man stood here two centuries ago, if his coming was a necessity and not a sentiment? He who follows, not merely in another's footsteps, but breaks his own path to do homage to an aged tree, is the greater man. Tree-worship is as old as religion itself, and a worthier phase of it than hero-worship.

It still rains, and I recall another May-day outing when colonial history gave zest to the ramble at the outset, but soon faded before the teeming wealth of natural history. With a companion I followed the general trend of the Towsissink Creek, where yet stands a remnant of the primeval forest, and came suddenly to a shallow basin where bubbles many a sparkling spring, the whole overshadowed by the out-spreading branches of a single tree. A nobler temple was never reared than a white-oak in its prime, and here was one without a blemish; a tree five feet in diameter and more than one hundred in the spread of its branches. But there are other and larger oaks nearer home, so why come so far to visit this? It is a tree with a history; one that was blazed with P when the boundary of Penn's first purchase was marked, from the spruce upon the bank of the Delaware westward to the Neshaminy. Armed with his note-book and compass, my companion studied the tree as an ancient deed-mark, and left me to drift wheresoever fancy might determine. I scarcely moved and had no desire to wander. It was my most happy fate to be held by the mute eloquence of the imperious oak, and I long rested upon a grassy bed, looked upward at the tree's strange gestures, and marked the continuous stream of life that, as if to consult an oracle, suddenly appeared and as speedily departed. I was the only slave, perhaps, but ready to kiss my chains. There was little to commend and much to deplore when my companion reappeared and snapped them. Probably nowhere, in the same space, could life in such varied forms be found as in, on, and about such an oak as this. It was alike the home or resting-place of the extremes of bird-life, the eagle and the humming-bird. The raccoon, squirrel, and mice of two kinds made it a home or temporary refuge; snakes were among its branches and about its roots; the lizard and the tortoise were here alike at home, and the pool where gathered the waters of the springs so closely nestled by the tree that the two were one; and here were lithe salamanders and dainty fishes. The teeming millions of insect-life I pass by. Is it strange, then, to have forgotten that here was the tree singled by Penn as one of his landmarks, and one that every Indian must recognize when he hunted in the surrounding forest or planted his corn-field in the clearings?

But what of the meadows again? for it has ceased raining. Doubtless there might be much discovered if one had the pluck to plunge in medias res, but walking through wet weeds is not attractive. Man's ancestor was an aquatic creature so very long ago that his love of water has not remained equal to such a task. I skirted the low grounds, where the cow-path offered a fair footing, and played bo-peep with a bull-frog. He was a monstrous fellow of his kind, and took my intrusion testily. There was a trace of fire in his great, watery eyes, and defiance, I fancied, in the grunt that heralded every leap. Was this really meant as a warning that injury would be inflicted if I ventured too far? So far, at least, I have not solved the problem of a frog's intelligence; and the sunshine now was growing too bright to warrant tarrying longer. I left the frog to his Maying and went upon my own. The flowers were fresher since their recent bath; the birds took up the songs the shower had cut short; every wheel was again in motion, and I walked as if speed was the true spirit of an outing. Such spurts of aimless activity are not uncommon, but, happily, they are of short duration; sooner or later we butt against a stone wall. I butted against the strange spectacle of a bat's carnival; at least, I can think of no clearer description. There were hundreds of them, or so it seemed, and not one was bat-like and natural. Had it been March I, and not May-day, I should have concluded it was their first outing, and much joy had made them mad; but here they were, dancing up and down and seldom circling, the point of attraction or fascination being a tall tulip-tree that, I knew, had a great hollow in its trunk. From it, it may be, they had come; but why in broad daylight? Not one made any sound save the fluttering of their leathern wings. There was no quarrelling. It was a thoroughly weird, unearthly, and disturbing sight, that gave a sombre tint to the remaining hours of the day; that reversed the happy order that gives a silver lining to a leaden cloud, and unto this day I never see a bat but I recall that host of fluttering imps that, by their mysterious antics, closed in sadness a merry May-day out of town.