no sound. Presently he flew away, a bit of dull blue to a tangle of grape-vines and disappeared. The cardinal continued his angry cry, and I finally went away, climbing up the opposite bank to the lane, the “Cht! Cht! – Cht!” following me.
     As paused at the top of the bank, a note that stirred me more than had the cardinal’s song, came from an eastern hill:
     “Pet-er, Pet-er”. I gazed in that direction, seeing nothing, and filled with - well I can’t describe my feeling on hearing those notes, but I know I could have listed to him with pleasure all day. “Pet-er, Pet-er.” called the Peterbird, more faintly. Again came the crow’s hoarse cry: “Caw! – Caw! --- Caw!Caw!”
     I followed the frozen lane, over a bare stony hill, past a mineshaft, around which steep side blue clay descended to a stream, across which I stepped, following a path that led past a deserted coalmine, and a bank of slate and coal, to the same stream that flowed thru valleys of Bentley’s and Forker’s woods; it was now all yellow with sulphur. Here I noticed for the first time how the brook was singing murmuring and laughing over the yellowed stones. I walked along its bank, soothed by its low murmur, now growing low and then almost growing silent; at one place its song of spring arose to a roar, as it leaped and bubbled with a bright sparkle over