subtle odour was the commingling of myriads of unfolding leaves

and crisp plants, upspringing; its pungent perfume was the pollen
of catkins.

Up in the land of the Limberlost, old Mother Nature, with
strident muttering, had set about her annual house cleaning.

With her efficient broom, the March wind, she was sweeping every
nook and cranny clean. With her scrub-bucket overflowing with

April showers, she was washing the face of all creation, and if
these measures failed to produce cleanliness to her satisfaction,

she gave a final polish with storms of hail. The shining river
was filled to overflowing; breaking up the ice and carrying a

load of refuse, it went rolling to the sea. The ice and snow had
not altogether gone; but the long-pregnant earth was mothering

her children. She cringed at every step, for the ground was
teeming with life. Bug and worm were working to light and

warmth. Thrusting aside the mold and leaves above them, spring
beauties, hepaticas, and violets lifted tender golden-green

heads. The sap was flowing, and leafless trees were covered with
swelling buds. Delicate mosses were creeping over every stick of

decaying timber. The lichens on stone and fence were freshly
painted in unending shades of gray and green. Myriads of flowers

and vines were springing up to cover last year's decaying leaves.
"The beautiful uncut hair of graves" was creeping over meadow,

spreading beside roadways, and blanketing every naked spot.
The Limberlost was waking to life even ahead of the fields and

the river. Through the winter it had been the barest and
dreariest of places; but now the earliest signs of returning

spring were in its martial music, for when the green hyla pipes,
and the bullfrog drums, the bird voices soon join them. The

catkins bloomed first; and then, in an incredibly short time,
flags, rushes, and vines were like a sea of waving green, and

swelling buds were ready to burst. In the upland the smoke was
curling over sugar-camp and clearing; in the forests animals were

rousing from their long sleep; the shad were starting anew their
never-ending journey up the shining river; peeps of green were

mantling hilltop and valley; and the northland was ready for its
dearest springtime treasures to come home again.

From overhead were ringing those first glad notes, caught nearer
the Throne than those of any other bird, "Spring o' year! Spring

o' year!"; while stilt-legged little killdeers were scudding
around the Limberlost and beside the river, flinging from

cloudland their "Kill deer! Kill deer!" call. The robins in the
orchards were pulling the long dried blades of last year's grass

from beneath the snow to line their mud-walled cups; and the
bluebirds were at the hollow apple tree. Flat on the top rail,

the doves were gathering their few coarse sticks and twigs
together. It was such a splendid place to set their cradle. The

weatherbeaten, rotting old rails were the very colour of the busy
dove mother. Her red-rimmed eye fitted into the background like

a tiny scarletlichen cup. Surely no one would ever see her!
The Limberlost and shining river, the fields and forests, the

wayside bushes and fences, the stumps, logs, hollow trees, even
the bare brown breast of Mother Earth, were all waiting to cradle

their own again; and by one of the untold miracles each would
return to its place.

There was intoxication in the air. The subtle, pungent,
ravishing odours on the wind, of unfolding leaves, ice-water

washed plants, and catkin pollen, were an elixir to humanity.
The cattle of the field were fairly drunk with it, and herds,

dry-fed during the winter, were coming to their first grazing
with heads thrown high, romping, bellowing, and racing like wild

things.
The north wind, sweeping from icy fastnesses, caught this odour

of spring, and carried it to the orange orchards and Everglades;
and at a breath of it, crazed with excitement, the Cardinal went

flaming through the orchard, for with no one to teach him, he
knew what it meant. The call had come. Holidays were over.

It was time to go home, time to riot in crisp freshness, time to
go courting, time to make love, time to possess his own, time for

mating and nest-building. All that day he flashed around,
nervous with dread of the unknown, and palpitant with delightful

expectation; but with the coming of dusk he began his journey
northward.

When he passed the Everglades, he winged his way slowly, and
repeatedly sent down a challenging "Chip," but there was no

answer. Then the Cardinal knew that the north wind had carried a
true message, for the king and his followers were ahead of him on

their way to the Limberlost. Mile after mile, a thing of pulsing
fire, he breasted the blue-black night, and it was not so very

long until he could discern a flickering patch of darkness
sweeping the sky before him. The Cardinal flew steadily in a

straight sweep, until with a throb of triumph in his heart, he
arose in his course, and from far overhead, flung down a boastful

challenge to the king and his followers, as he sailed above them
and was lost from sight.

It was still dusky with the darkness of night when he crossed the
Limberlost, dropping low enough to see its branches laid bare, to

catch a gleam of green in its swelling buds, and to hear the
wavering chorus of its frogs. But there was no hesitation in his

flight. Straight and sure he winged his way toward the shining
river; and it was only a few more miles until the rolling waters

of its springtime flood caught his eye. Dropping precipitately,
he plunged his burning beak into the loved water; then he flew

into a fine old stag sumac and tucked his head under his wing for
a short rest. He had made the long flight in one unbroken sweep,

and he was sleepy. In utter content he ruffled his feathers and
closed his eyes, for he was beside the shining river; and it

would be another season before the orange orchard would ring
again with his "Good Cheer! Good Cheer!"

Chapter 2
"Wet year! Wet year!" prophesied the Cardinal

The sumac seemed to fill his idea of a perfect location from the
very first. He perched on a limb, and between dressing his

plumage and pecking at last year's sour dried berries, he sent
abroad his prediction. Old Mother Nature verified his wisdom by

sending a dashingshower, but he cared not at all for a wetting.
He knew how to turn his crimson suit into the most perfect of

water-proof coats; so he flattened his crest, sleeked his
feathers, and breasting the April downpour, kept on calling for

rain. He knew he would appear brighter when it was past, and he
seemed to know, too, that every day of sunshine and shower would

bring nearer his heart's desire.
He was a very Beau Brummel while he waited. From morning until

night he bathed, dressed his feathers, sunned himself, fluffed
and flirted. He strutted and "chipped" incessantly. He claimed

that sumac for his very own, and stoutly battled for possession
with many intruders. It grew on a denselywooded slope, and the

shining river went singing between grassy banks, whitened with
spring beauties, below it. Crowded around it were thickets of

papaw, wild grape-vines, thorn, dogwood, and red haw, that
attracted bug and insect; and just across the old snake fence was

a field of mellow mould sloping to the river, that soon would be
plowed for corn, turning out numberless big fat grubs.

He was compelled almost hourly to wage battles for his location,
for there was something fine about the old stag sumac that

attracted homestead seekers. A sober pair of robins began laying
their foundations there the morning the Cardinal arrived, and a

couple of blackbirds tried to take possession before the day had
passed. He had little trouble with the robins. They were easily

conquered, and with small protest settled a rod up the bank in a
wild-plum tree; but the air was thick with "chips," chatter, and

red and black feathers, before the blackbirds acknowledged
defeat. They were old-timers, and knew about the grubs and the

young corn; but they also knew when they were beaten, so they