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MIGHT AS WELL BE SPRING

Here at the long dusk to a rainy day, when all the air is the breath of spring, the warbler sits in the about-to-blossom cherry tree right outside my window and sings out the very rhythm and pulse of the coming changes, while incidentally laying claim to all these lands around for his own little feathered self; he clearly has plans, and is central to the action. He deserves it all, too, for such a rich and splendrous song as that out of so tiny a body, and all by memory, from a score composed long before the thought of time.