moment, and then, circling around the road, which led from it, we came to the Painter road. Suddenly I stopped short - no there was no mistake - a bluebird was singing! A bluebird! sometimes I think the song of a bluebird is the most beautiful song of birds. How full and strong it is - and yet it is not sharp like some birds - but seems to be softened until it is a perfect melody of sound. I listened and listened, striving in vain to catch sight of the little singer. Presently more birds began to sing a Peter-bird called “Pet-er, Pet-er”; a song-sparrow warbled; and a red-bird whistled while a far off crow called “Caw! – Caw!”  It seemed strange to hear these birds on this cold frosty morning singing so joyously.
     It did not take us long on the return; we seemed to be coming back to the old familiar world again; here the frost was gone; and no birds were singing. At a trough in front of Bentley’s while we were looking down on the ice, we saw a frog swim slowly along under the ice. We smashed the ice and after some trouble Bill had the chilled creature in his hand, breathing on it to warm it.
     “Don’t hurt it!” I said as I looked at his black prominent eyes. He seemed to shiver.