he'll burst himself."

Maria sniffed.

"Course, don't come if you're tired, honey," said the farmer. "I
thought maybe you'd enjoy it. He's a-doin' me a power o' good. My
joints are limbered up till I catch myself pretty near runnin', on the
up furrow, an' then, down towards the fence, I go slow so's to stay
near him as long as I can."

Maria stared. "Abram Johnson, have you gone daft?" she demanded.

Abram chuckled. "Not a mite dafter'n you'll be, honey, once you set
eyes on the fellow. Better come, if you can. You're invited. He's
askin' the whole endurin' country to come."

Maria said nothing more; but she mentally decided she had no time to
fool with a bird, when there were housekeeping and spring sewing to do.
As she recalled Abram's enthusiastic praise of the singer, and had a
whiff of the odour-laden air as she passed from kitchen to
spring-house, she was compelled to admit that it was a temptation to
go; but she finished her noon work and resolutely sat down with her
needle. She stitched industriously, her thread straightening with a
quick nervous sweep, learned through years of experience; and if her
eyes wandered riverward, and if she paused frequently with arrested
hand and listened intently, she did not realize it. By two o'clock, a
spirit of unrest that demanded recognition had taken possession of her.
Setting her lips firmly, a scowl clouding her brow, she stitched on.
By half past two her hands dropped in her lap, Abram's new hickory
shirt slid to the floor, and she hesitatingly arose and crossed the
room to the closet, from which she took her overshoes, and set them by
the kitchen fire, to have them ready in case she wanted them.

"Pshaw!" she muttered, "I got this shirt to finish this afternoon.
There's butter an' bakin' in the mornin', an' Mary Jane Simms is comin'
for a visit in the afternoon."

She returned to the window and took up the shirt, sewing with unusual
swiftness for the next half-hour; but by three she dropped it, and
opening the kitchen door, gazed toward the river. Every intoxicating
delight of early spring was in the air. The breeze that fanned her
cheek was laden with subtle perfume of pollen and the crisp fresh odour
of unfolding leaves. Curling skyward, like a beckoning finger, went a
spiral of violet and gray smoke from the log heap Abram was burning;
and scattered over spaces of a mile were half a dozen others, telling a
story of the activity of his neighbours.