hard work of pulling frozen browse, gave his bill the needed
chance to grow into its proper shape again. Very soon the first bluebird
came flying over and warbled as he flew '_The spring is coming_.' The
sun kept gaining, and early one day in the dark of the Wakening Moon of
March there was a loud '_Caw, caw_,' and old Silverspot, the king-crow,
came swinging along from the south at the head of his troops and
officially announced

'THE SPRING HAS COME.'

All nature seemed to respond to this, the opening of the birds' New
Year, and yet it was something within that chiefly seemed to move them.
The chickadees went simply wild; they sang their '_Spring now, spring
now now--Spring now now_,' so persistently that one wondered how they
found time to get a living.

And Redruff felt it thrill him through and through. He sprang with
joyous vigor on a stump and sent rolling down the little valley, again
and again, a thundering '_Thump, thump, thump, thunderrrrrrrrr_,' that
wakened dull echoes as it rolled, and voiced his gladness in the coming
of the spring.

Away down the valley was Cuddy's shanty. He heard the drum-call on the
still morning air and 'reckoned there was a cock patridge to git,' and
came sneaking up the ravine with his gun. But Redruff skimmed away in
silence, nor rested till once more in Mud Creek Glen. And there he
mounted the very log where first he had drummed and rolled his loud
tattoo again and again, till a small boy who had taken a short cut to
the mill through the woods, ran home, badly scared, to tell his mother
he was sure the Indians were on the war-path, for he heard their
war-drums beating in the glen.

Why does a happy boy holla? Why does a lonesome youth sigh? They don't
know any more than Redruff knew why every day now he mounted some dead
log and thumped and thundered to the woods; then strutted and admired
his gorgeous blazing ruffs as they flashed their jewels in the sunlight,
and then thundered out again. Whence now came the strange wish for
someone else to admire the plumes? And why had such a notion never come
till the Pussywillow Moon?

_'Thump, thump, thunder-r-r.r-r-r-rrrr'_
_'Thump, thump, thunder-r-r-r-r-r-rrrr'_

he rumbled again and again.

Day after day he sought the favorite log, and a new beauty, a rose-red
comb, grew out above each clear, keen eye, and the clumsy snow-*shoes
were wholly shed from his feet. His ruff grew finer, his eye brighter,
and his wh