Crossing the frozen pasture, and climbing over several fences, I entered Bentely’s woods; no sound could be heard but the March wind rustling the dead leaves on tree and ground; the breeze was scattering the clouds too, and with the increasing light, the deep blue became visible. I walked on, following the frozen path, thru patches of red brambles and young saplings. On a tree I found an empty cocoon, and with a view to finding good ones, I pushed my way thru bushes and young trees, down the hollow, where a stream flowed noiselessly by; following the stream a short distance, I mounted a gentle tree-covered slope on the other side, and paused a moment to look around for cocoons. Presently the familiar call of a cardinal—or red bird, as that name sounds more friendly—came to me from out of the northeast. I answered but the sound came no more; a crow screamed hoarsely “Caw! Caw!” Finding no cocoons, I went on again down into the valley and climbed a hill opposite; here, growing in the side of the hill and looking as if they were trying not to slide down the side, were some willows. The “pussies” were bursting their brown shells, and peeping forth, very white.
On a trampled, following the path which led over hills and the frozen field north of Forker’s Wood. Suddenly from across the hollow a red-bird burst forth:
“What cheer? What cheer? Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear!”
“What cheer?” I whistled back.
“What cheer?” called the bird again; “Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear!”
Yes there—there, in his song was the cheer. How I longed for a sight of this gay songster who braves winter storms to sing in these early March mornings. As I was answering him, another Red-bird began his call to the east—a different call sharp and short. Filled with a desire to see this songster, I hastened across frozen meadows to a little thicket, where I had heard him call; in my eagerness I only cast a hasty glance at the skies; the clouds were breaking up and beginning to yellow. I hurried on thru the woods. Now the song seemed to come from a tall tree nearby; I looked and looked in but I could see nothing; again he cried.
“Cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p!”
Forcing my way over the frozen leaves and branches, I came to the top of a little valley, and on a small tree on the other side of the road, which ran along the top of the opposite hill, I saw the Red-bird, swinging in the wind, with the feathers ruffled, and tail flopping, pouring forth his song.
“Cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p, cheer’p!” he whistled perioulsy swaying on the slender branch. The sky was yellowing behind him and he appeared black to me. The wind stole thru the swaying trees, and over the leaf covered ground, rustling and whipering, rustling and whispering, whispering, whispering promises of spring.
Charles Burchfield, March 3, 1911