man through more senses than science has yet named or discovered--an unnamed sense which is neither sight, nor sound, nor touch, nor intuition, a vibrant unseen force which is current throughout the universe, connecting man, unknowingly, to every tree, shrub, and atom. Thus, in the spring one feels that:
"There's a chorus in the valleys and an anthem on the hills,
There's an echo from the music which our inner being thrills
Till we long to journey outward where no other foot has trod,
And join in the song of worship at the shrine of Nature's God."
Spring is synonymous with the return of the birds, and their blythe little songs are but another promise of hope and expectation.
Following close upon the return of Allen's Hummingbird is the little piliolated warbler with his green back, pale, sulphur yellow breast, and tiny "pee wit" call.
When the climbing roses are becoming gay with blossoms, our old friends, the linnets, returning from their winter's sojourn in lower California, being to build their nests.
A walk in the woods in the early morning or evening will acquaint one with another spring bird, Vaux's Swift, invariably seen about the streams.
In our hasty glimpse of the birds, it is impossible to enumerate all the feathered flock, and the renewal of a few old acquaintances will have to suffice. A very characteristic summer inhabitant of Marin's woodlands is the Red Shafted Flicker, a large bird, conspicuous when flying for its gay plumage, and often seen about the stumps of rotten trees, in the holes of which it makes its nest. While strolling in the woods we are often startled by a sharp rat-tat-tat on a neighboring alder, and on close
A HUMMING BIRD'S NEST.
approach a flutter of wings discloses a black-and-white
creature with a dash of scarlet on his head. This is
Harris's Woodpecker which makes the silent woods resound to
its noisy rapping. A harsh, squawking call, a swift flight
of blue wings, and an ensuing, noisy chatter announce the
saucy California jay--the least lovable to my mind of all
the California birds. He is the Rockefeller of the
bird-world, consuming and destroying the eggs of his fellow
birds, leaving destruction and ruin in his wake in the shape
of desolate, broken nests. A pleasing contrast to this
sharp, unruIy bird, is the Iarge, beautiful orange mottIed
Bullock's 0riole, who fills the air near sundown, with his