I came to Washington to live in the fall of 1863, and, with the exception of a month each summer spent in the interior of New York, have lived here ever since.  
I saw my first novelty in Natural History the day after my arrival. As I was walking near some woods north of the city, a grasshopper¹ of prodigious³ size flew up from the ground and alighted in a tree. As I pursued him, he proved to be nearly as wild and as fleet of wing as a bird. I thought I had reached the capital of grasshopperdom, and that this was perhaps one of the chiefs or leaders, or perhaps the great High Cock O'lorum himself, taking an airing in the fields. I have never yet been able to settle the question, as every fall I start up a few of these gigantic specimens⁴, which perch⁵ on the trees. They are about three inches long, of a gray striped or spotted⁶ color, and have quite a reptile⁷ look.
 
The greatest novelty I found, however, was the superb autumn weather, the bright, strong, electric days, lasting⁸ well into November, and the general mildness of the entire winter. Though the mercury occasionally sinks to zero, yet the earth is never so seared and blighted⁹ by the cold but that in some sheltered nook or corner signs of vegetable life still remain, which on a little encouragement even asserts itself. I have found wild flowers here every month of the year; violets in December, a single houstonia in January (the little lump of earth upon which it stood was frozen hard), and a tiny weed-like plant, with a flower almost microscopic¹⁰ in its smallness, growing along graveled walks and in old plowed¹¹ fields in February. The liverwort sometimes comes out as early as the first week in March, and the little frogs begin to pipe doubtfully about the same time. Apricot-trees are usually in bloom on All-Fool's Day and the apple-trees on May Day. By August, mother hen will lead forth¹³ her third brood, and I had a March pullet that came off with a family of her own in September. Our calendar is made for this climate. March is a spring month. One is quite sure to see some marked and striking change during the first eight or ten days. This season (1868) is a backward one, and the memorable¹⁴ change did not come till the 10th.
 
Then the sun rose up from a bed of vapors¹⁵, and seemed fairly to dissolve with tenderness and warmth. For an hour or two the air was perfectly¹⁶ motionless, and full of low, humming, awakening¹⁷ sounds. The naked trees had a rapt, expectant look. From some unreclaimed common near by came the first strain of the song sparrow; so homely¹⁸, because so old and familiar, yet so inexpressibly pleasing. Presently a full chorus of voices arose, tender, musical, half suppressed, but full of genuine hilarity¹⁹ and joy. The bluebird warbled, the robin²⁰ called, the snowbird chattered²¹, the meadowlark uttered her strong but tender note. Over a deserted²³ field a turkey buzzard hovered²⁴ low, and alighted on a stake in the fence, standing²⁶ a moment with outstretched, vibrating wings till he was sure of his hold. A soft, warm, brooding day. Roads becoming dry in many places, and looking so good after the mud and the snow. I walk up beyond the boundary and over Meridian²⁷ Hill. To move along the drying road and feel the delicious warmth is enough. The cattle low long and loud, and look wistfully into the distance. I sympathize with them. Never a spring comes but I have an almost irresistible²⁸ desire to depart. Some nomadic²⁹ or migrating instinct or reminiscence stirs within me. I ache to be off.
 
As I pass along, the high-bole calls in the distance precisely³⁰ as I have heard him in the North. After a pause he repeats his summons. What can be more welcome to the ear than these early first sounds! They have such a margin³¹ of silence!
 
One need but pass the boundary of Washington city to be fairly in the country, and ten minutes' walk in the country brings one to real primitive³² woods. The town has not yet overflowed³³ its limits like the great Northern commercial capitals, and Nature, wild and unkempt, comes up to its very threshold, and even in many places crosses it.
 
The woods, which I soon reach, are stark³⁴ and still. The signs of returning life are so faint as to be almost imperceptible, but there is a fresh, earthy smell in the air, as if something had stirred here under the leaves. The crows caw above the wood, or walk about the brown fields. I look at the gray silent trees long and long, but they show no sign. The catkins of some alders³⁵ by a little pool have just swelled³⁷ perceptibly; and, brushing away the dry leaves and débris on a sunny slope, I discover the liverwort just pushing up a fuzzy, tender sprout³⁸. But the waters have brought forth. The little frogs are musical. From every marsh³⁹ and pool goes up their shrill⁴⁰ but pleasing chorus. Peering into one of their haunts, a little body of semi-stagnant water, I discover masses of frogs' spawn⁴¹ covering the bottom. I take up great chunks⁴² of the cold, quivering jelly in my hands. In some places there are gallons of it. A youth who accompanies me wonders if it would not be good cooked, or if it could not be used as a substitute for eggs. It is a perfect jelly, of a slightly milky⁴³ tinge⁴⁴, thickly imbedded with black spots about the size of a small bird's eye. When just deposited it is perfectly transparent⁴⁵. These hatch in eight or ten days, gradually absorb their gelatinous surroundings, and the tiny tadpoles⁴⁶ issue forth.
 
In the city, even before the shop-windows have caught the inspiration, spring is heralded⁴⁷ by the silver poplars which line all the streets and avenues. After a few mild, sunshiny March days, you suddenly perceive a change has come over the trees. Their tops have a less naked look. If the weather continues warm, a single day will work wonders. Presently each tree will be one vast plume⁴⁸ of gray, downy tassels⁴⁹, while not the least speck⁵⁰ of green foliage⁵¹ is visible. The first week of April these long mimic⁵² caterpillars⁵³ lie all about the streets and fill the gutters⁵⁴.
 
The approach of spring is also indicated by the crows and buzzards, which rapidly multiply in the environs of the city, and grow bold and demonstrative. The crows are abundant here all winter, but are not very noticeable except as they pass high in air to and from their winter quarters in the Virginia woods. Early in the morning, as soon as it is light enough to discern them, there they are, streaming eastward⁵⁵ across the sky, now in loose, scattered⁵⁶ flocks, now in thick dense⁵⁸ masses, then singly and in pairs or triplets, but all setting in one direction, probably to the waters of eastern Maryland. Toward night they begin to return, flying in the same manner, and directing their course to the wooded heights on the Potomac, west of the city. In spring these diurnal⁵⁹ mass movements cease; the clan⁶⁰ breaks up, the rookery is abandoned, and the birds scatter⁵⁷ broadcast over the land. This seems to be the course everywhere pursued. One would think that, when food was scarcest, the policy of separating into small bands or pairs, and dispersing⁶¹ over a wide country, would prevail, as a few might subsist⁶² where a larger number would starve. The truth is, however, that, in winter, food can be had only in certain clearly defined districts and tracts⁶³, as along rivers and the shores of bays and lakes.
 
A few miles north of Newburgh, on the Hudson, the crows go into winter quarters in the same manner, flying south in the morning and returning again at night, sometimes hugging the hills so close during a strong wind as to expose themselves to the clubs and stones of schoolboys ambushed⁶⁴ behind trees and fences. The belated ones, that come laboring⁶⁵ along just at dusk, are often so overcome by the long journey and the strong current that they seem almost on the point of sinking down whenever the wind or a rise in the ground calls upon them for an extra effort.
 
The turkey buzzards are noticeable about Washington as soon as the season begins to open, sailing leisurely⁶⁶ along two or three hundred feet overhead, or sweeping⁶⁷ low over some common or open space where, perchance, a dead puppy or pig or fowl⁶⁸ has been thrown. Half a dozen will sometimes alight about some object out on the commons, and, with their broad dusky wings lifted up to their full extent, threaten and chase each other, while perhaps one or two are feeding. Their wings are very large and flexible, and the slightest motion of them, while the bird stands upon the ground, suffices to lift its feet clear. Their movements when in the air are very majestic⁶⁹ and beautiful to the eye, being in every respect identical with those of our common hen or red-tailed hawk⁷⁰. They sail along in the same calm, effortless, interminable manner, and sweep around in the same ample spiral. The shape of their wings and tail, indeed their entire effect against the sky, except in size and color, is very nearly the same as that of the hawk mentioned. A dozen at a time may often be seen high in air, amusing themselves by sailing serenely⁷² round and round in the same circle.
 
They are less active and vigilant⁷³ than the hawk; never poise⁷⁴ themselves on the wing, never dive and gambol⁷⁵ in the air, and never swoop⁷⁶ down upon their prey⁷⁷; unlike the hawks⁷⁸ also, they appear to have no enemies. The crow fights the hawk, and the kingbird and the crow blackbird fight the crow; but neither takes any notice of the buzzard. He excites the enmity of none, for the reason that he molests⁷⁹ none. The crow has an old grudge⁸⁰ against the hawk, because the hawk robs the crow's nest and carries off his young; the kingbird's quarrel with the crow is upon the same grounds. But the buzzard never attacks live game, or feeds upon new flesh when old can be had.
 
In May, like the crows, they nearly all disappear very suddenly, probably to their breeding-haunts near the seashore. Do the males separate from the females at this time, and go by themselves? At any rate, in July I discovered that a large number of buzzards roosted in some woods near Rock Creek⁸¹, about a mile from the city limits; and, as they do not nest anywhere in this vicinity, I thought they might be males. I happened to be detained late in the woods, watching the nest of a flying squirrel, when the buzzards, just after sundown, began to come by ones and twos and alight in the trees near me. Presently they came in greater numbers, but from the same direction, flapping low over the woods, and taking up their position in the middle branches. On alighting, each one would blow very audibly through his nose, just as a cow does when she lies down; this is the only sound I have ever heard the buzzard make. They would then stretch themselves, after the manner of turkeys, and walk along the limbs. Sometimes a decayed branch would break under the weight of two or three, when, with a great flapping, the would take up new positions. They continued to come till it was quite dark, and all the trees about me were full. I began to feel a little nervous, but kept my place. After it was entirely⁸² dark and all was still, I gathered a large pile of dry leaves and kindled⁸³ it with a match, to see what they would think of a fire. Not a sound was heard till the pile of leaves was in full blaze, when instantaneously every buzzard started. I thought the treetops were coming down upon me, so great was the uproar⁸⁴. But the woods were soon cleared, and the loathsome⁸⁵ pack disappeared in the night.
 
About the 1st of June I saw numbers of buzzards sailing around over the great Falls of the Potomac.
 
A glimpse of the birds usually found here in the latter part of winter may be had in the following extract, which I take from my diary under date of February 4th:—
 
"Made a long excursion through the woods and over the hills. Went directly north from the Capitol for about three miles. The ground bare and the day cold and sharp. In the suburbs, among the scattered Irish and negro shanties⁸⁶, came suddenly upon a flock of birds, feeding about like our northern snow buntings. Every now and then they uttered a piping, disconsolate⁸⁷ note, as if they had a very sorry time of it. They proved to be shore larks⁸⁸, the first I had ever seen. They had the walk characteristic of all larks; were a little larger than the sparrow; had a black spot on the breast, with much white on the under parts of their bodies. As I approached them the nearer ones paused, and, half squatting⁸⁹, eyed me suspiciously. Presently, at a movement of my arm, away they went, flying exactly like the snow bunting, and showing nearly as much white." (I have since discovered that the shore lark²² is a regular visitant here in February and March, when large quantities of them are shot or trapped, and exposed for sale in the market. During a heavy snow I have seen numbers of them feeding upon the seeds of various weedy growths in a large market-garden well into town.) "Pressing on, the walk became exhilarating. Followed a little brook⁹⁰, the eastern branch of the Tiber, lined with bushes and a rank growth of green-brier. Sparrows started out here and there, and flew across the little bends and points. Among some pines just beyond the boundary, saw a number of American goldfinches, in their gray winter dress, pecking the pinecones. A golden-crowned kinglet was there also, a little tuft of gray feathers, hopping⁹² about as restless as a spirit. Had the old pine-trees food delicate enough for him also? Farther on, in some low open woods, saw many sparrows,—the fox, white-throated, white-crowned, the Canada, the song, the swamp,—all herding⁹³ together along the warm and sheltered borders. To my surprise, saw a chewink also, and the yellow-rumped warbler. The purple finch⁹¹ was there likewise, and the Carolina wren⁹⁴ and brown creeper. In the higher, colder woods not a bird was to be seen. Returning, near sunset, across the eastern slope of a hill which overlooked the city, was delighted to see a number of grass finches or vesper sparrows,—birds which will be forever associated in my mind with my father's sheep pastures. They ran before me, now flitting a pace or two, now skulking⁹⁵ in the low stubble, just as I had observed them when a boy."
 
A month later, March 4th, is this note:—
 
"After the second memorable inaguration of President Lincoln, took my first trip of the season. The afternoon was very clear and warm,—real vernal sunshine at last, though the wind roared like a lion over the woods. It seemed novel enough to find within two miles of the White House a simple woodsman chopping away as if no President was being inaugurated! Some puppies, snugly⁹⁶ nestled in the cavity of an old hollow tree, he said, belonged to a wild dog. I imagine I saw the 'wild dog,' on the other side of Rock Creek, in a great state of grief and trepidation⁹⁷, running up and down, crying and yelping⁹⁸, and looking wistfully over the swollen⁹⁹ flood, which the poor thing had not the courage to brave. This day, for the first time, I heard the song of the Canada sparrow, a soft, sweet note, almost running into a warble. Saw a small, black velvety¹⁰⁰ butterfly with a yellow border to its wings. Under a warm bank found two flowers of the houstonia in bloom. Saw frogs' spawn near Piny Branch, and heard the hyla."
 
Among the first birds that make their appearance in Washington is the crow blackbird. He may come any time after the 1st of March. The birds congregate¹⁰¹ in large flocks, and frequent groves¹⁰² and parks, alternately swarming¹⁰⁴ in the treetops and filling the air with their sharp jangle, and alighting on the ground in quest of food, their polished coats glistening¹⁰⁵ in the sun from very blackness as they walk about. There is evidently some music in the soul of this bird at this season, though he makes a sad failure in getting it out. His voice always sounds as if he were laboring under a severe attack of influenza¹⁰⁶, though a large flock of them, heard at a distance on a bright afternoon of early spring, produce an effect not unpleasing. The air is filled with crackling, splintering, spurting¹⁰⁷, semi-musical sounds, which are like pepper and salt to the ear.
 
All parks and public grounds about the city are full of blackbirds. They are especially plentiful¹⁰⁸ in the trees about the White House, breeding there and waging war on all other birds. The occupants of one of the offices in the west wing of the Treasury¹⁰⁹ one day had their attention attracted by some object striking violently against one of the window-panes. Looking up, they beheld¹¹⁰ a crow blackbird pausing in midair, a few feet from the window. On the broad stone window-sill lay the quivering form of a purple finch. The little tragedy was easily read. The blackbird had pursued the finch with such murderous violence that the latter, in its desperate efforts to escape, had sought refuge in the Treasury. The force of the concussion¹¹² against the heavy plateglass of the window had killed the poor thing instantly. The pursuer, no doubt astonished at the sudden and novel termination of the career of its victim, hovered for a moment, as if to be sure of what had happened, and made off.
 
(It is not unusual for birds, when thus threatened with destruction by their natural enemy, to become so terrified as to seek safety in the presence of man. I was once startled, while living in a country village, to behold¹¹³, on entering my room at noon, one October day, a quail¹¹⁴ sitting upon my bed. The affrighted and bewildered bird instantly started for the open window, into which it had no doubt been driven by a hawk.)
 
The crow blackbird has all the natural cunning of his prototype, the crow. In one of the inner courts of the Treasury building there is a fountain with several trees growing near. By midsummer the blackbirds became so bold as to venture within this court. Various fragments of food, tossed from the surrounding windows, reward their temerity¹¹⁵. When a crust of dry bread defies their beaks¹¹⁶, they have been seen to drop it into the water, and, when it has become soaked sufficiently¹¹⁸, to take it out again.
 
They build a nest of coarse sticks and mud, the whole burden of the enterprise seeming to devolve upon the female. For several successive mornings, just after sunrise, I used to notice a pair of them flying to and fro in the air above me as I hoed in the garden, directing their course about half a mile distant, and disappearing, on their return, among the trees about the Capitol. Returning, the female always had her beak¹¹⁷ loaded with building material, while the male, carrying nothing, seemed to act as her escort, flying a little above and in advance of her, and uttering now and then his husky, discordant¹¹⁹ note. As I tossed a lump of earth up at them, the frightened mother bird dropped her mortar¹²⁰, and the pair scurried¹²¹ away, much put out. Later they avenged¹²² themselves by pilfering¹²³ my cherries.
 
The most mischievous¹²⁴ enemies of the cherries, however, here as at the North, are the cedar¹²⁵ waxwings, or "cherry-birds." How quickly they spy out the tree! Long before the cherry begins to turn, they are around, alert and cautious. In small flocks they circle about, high in the air, uttering their fine note, or plunge¹²⁶ quickly into the tops of remote trees. Day by day they approach nearer and nearer, reconnoitring the premises¹²⁷, and watching the growing fruit. Hardly have the green lobes¹²⁸ turned a red cheek to the sun, before their beaks have scarred it. At first they approach the tree stealthily, on the side turned from the house, diving quickly into the branches in ones and twos, while the main flock is ambushed in some shade tree not far off. They are most apt to commit their depredations¹²⁹ very early in the morning and on cloudy, rainy days. As the cherries grow sweeter the birds grow bolder, till, from throwing tufts of grass, one has to throw stones in good earnest, or lose all his fruit. In June they disappear, following the cherries to the north, where by July they are nesting in the orchards¹³⁰ and cedar groves.
 
Among the permanent summer residents here (one might say city residents, as they seem more abundant in town than out), the yellow warbler or summer yellowbird is conspicuous¹³². He comes about the middle of April, and seems particularly attached to the silver poplars. In every street, and all day long, one may hear his thin, sharp warble. When nesting, the female comes about the yard, pecking at the clothes-line, and gathering¹³³ up bits of thread to weave into her nest.
 
Swallows appear in Washington form the first to the middle of April. They come twittering along in the way so familiar to every New England boy. The barn swallow is heard first, followed in a day or two by the squeaking¹³⁴ of the cliff swallow. The chimney swallows, or swifts, are not far behind, and remain here in large numbers, the whole season. The purple martins appear in April, as they pass north, and again in July and August on their return, accompanied by their young.
 
The national capital is situated¹³⁵ in such a vast spread of wild, woode............