Some Spring Days in Iowa | Page 2

until it meets the sky in a mist of
silver blue. To the right a big tract of woodland is haloed by a denser
cloud of vivid violet as if the pillar of cloud which led the Israelites by
day had rested there; or as if mingled smoke and incense were rising
from Druid altars around the sacred grove. As a matter of fact, it is a
mingling of the ever increasing humidity, the dust particles in the air
and the smoke from many April grass fires. To the left of the meadow
there is a sweep of arable land where disc harrows, seeders, and
ploughs are at work. The unsightly corn stalks of the winter have been
laid low, the brown fields are as neat and tidy as if they had been newly
swept; and this is Iowa in April.
Up and down the river the willow leaves are just unfolding, bordering
the stream with tender green. The tassels of the pussy willows, which
were white in March, are now rosy and gold, due to the development of
the anthers. The aspens at the front of the wood are thickly hung with
the long yellowish-white tassels and look like masses of floss silk
among the tops of the darker trees. A big cottonwood is at its most
picturesque period in the whole year. The dark red anthers make the
myriads of catkins look like elongated strawberries. Tomorrow, or the
next day, these red anthers will break and discharge their yellow pollen
and then the tassels will be golden instead of strawberry-colored.
Spring seems to unfold her beauties slowly but she has something new
each day for the faithful.
The ash, the hackberry, the oaks, the linden, the locusts on the hill and
the solitary old honey-locust down by the river's brink are as yet
unresponsive to the smiles of spring. The plum, the crab apple, the
hawthorn and the wild cherry are but just beginning to push green
points between their bud scales. But the elms are a glory of dull gold;
every twig is fringed with blossoms. The maples have lost their fleecy

white softness, for the staminate flowers which were so beautiful in
March have withered now. But the fruit blossoms remind us of Lowell's
line, "The maple puts her corals on in May." In Iowa he might have
made it April instead of May. But that would have spoiled his verse.
* * * * *
For long we sit and drink in the beauty of the scene. Meanwhile the
birds on this wooded slope are asking us to use our ears as well as our
eyes. Such a mingling of bird voices! The "spring o' th' year" of the
meadow larks and the mingled squeaks and music of the robins are
brought up by the wind from the river bottom, and the shrill clear
"phe-be" of the chickadee is one of the prettiest sounds now, just as it
was in February. Pretty soon a bevy of them come flitting and talking
along, like a girl botany class on the search. Before they have passed
out of sight the loud and prolonged "O-wick-o-wick-o-wick-o-wick" of
the flicker makes us lift our eyes to the top of a scarlet oak and anon
three or four of the handsome fellows alight nearer by so that we may
the better admire their white-tailed coats, brown shoulders, scarlet
napes and the beautiful black crescent on their breasts. When we hear
the call of the flicker we may know that spring is here to stay. They are
as infallible as the yellow-breasted larks in the meadows.
"Chip-chip-chip-chip,"--yes, of course that's the chipping sparrow;
another of the engaging creatures which almost has been driven from
the habitations of his human friends by the miserable English sparrows.
Often have we seen the little fellow set upon and brutally hurt by these
pirates. Now he stays around rural homes, and his chestnut crown,
brown coat mixed with black and gray, his whitish vest and black bill
are always a welcome sight. He takes up the chant of the year where the
departing junco left it off, throws back his tiny head and his little throat
flutters with the oft-repeated syllable, continued rapidly for about four
seconds. A while longer we wait and are rewarded by a few bars of the
musicful song of the brown thrasher who has just arrived with Mrs.
Thrasher for two weeks of courtship and song, after which they will
build a new home in the hazel thicket and go to housekeeping.
Just as we are rising to leave there is the glimmer of the blue-bird's

wing and the brilliant fellow and his pretty mate appear at the top of the
bank, where the staghorn sumac still bears its berries. None of the