There's three kinds o' spring ‹ forward, backward an' th' plain almanack variety, which arrives with th' vernal equinox on th' twenty-first day o' March, rain or snow.

Ther's many harbingers o' spring which are regarded as bein' absolutely trustworthy signs that th' season which we long fer is comin' soon." [sic] Wild geese flyin' north, marble playin', blue-eyed violets peepin' out o' th' slush, th' robin, the shaggy umbreller mender with th' workhouse parlor, th' candidate fer sheriff with his fresh hair cut, an' th' display o' onion sets, winter elbows an' garden tools ‹ all are looked upon as bein' unmistakable evidence that winter is beatin' and hasty retreat.

While we're liable t' burn more coal after th' arrival o' th' first robin than we've burned since he took his departure, he's still th' most highly regarded forecaster o' th' vernal season in th' business.

Th' political candidate has been fooled so often by th' first robin that he withholds his activities till th' umbreller mender shows up an' th' frost is out o' th' court house steps an' it's balmy enough t' lean agin th' pustoffice. We rarely have any sleighin' after th' ambitious office seeker gits his neck shaved an' his cards printed.

But t' return t' th' first robin. Nature, in spite o' her celebrated reputation fer lookin' out fer ever'buddy, seems t' have given th' robin th' worst of it. Unequipped fer anything colder than 30 above, he's more frequently th' forecaster of a blizzard than th' dandelion. Unagressive an' meek, he'd sooner starve than question th' priority o' th' English sparrow. Th' only thing a robin'll attack is th' blind, helpless, squirmin' angle worm. Yit nature sends him north a full four weeks before the angle worm is available. Utterly lackin' in th' instinct t' keep away from his natural enemies he invariably selects a buildin' site within easy reach o' the family cat, or in th' roof gutter, where he an' his family fall an easy prey t' th' April freshet.

But th' amount o' publicity th' first robin gits is enough t' make th' Colonel turn green with envy. He's th' only bird that gits his name on th' editorial page. Long before he gits fairly balanced on th' bare twig of an apple tree his arrival is heralded broadcast by th' nearest newspaper an' discussed in every home.

How many times have we drawn th' curtain in th' mornin' an' looked out upon a bleak, snowy landscape an' beheld th' first robin with a sad fer away look in his eye, an' wonderin' what kind of a meteorological disturbance nature wuz goin' t' hand him next.

Napolean, standin' on th' barren, slaty bluffs o' St. Helena, lookin' gloomily out o'er a vast expanse o' speckless sea, didn' have anything on the first robin.