These are infallible signs.  Taken in conjunction with the eruption
of tops and marbles among the small boys, and the purchase of
fishing-tackle and golf-clubs by the old boys, they certify us that
the vernal equinox has arrived, not only in the celestial regions,
but also in the heart of man.

I have been reflecting of late upon the relation of lovers to the
landscape, and questioning whether art has given it quite the same
place as that which belongs to it in nature.  In fiction, for
example, and in the drama, and in music, I have some vague
misgivings that romantic love has come to hold a more prominent and
a more permanent position than it fills in real life.

This is dangerous ground to venture upon, even in the most modest
and deprecatory way.  The man who expresses an opinion, or even a
doubt, on this subject, contrary to the ruling traditions, will have
a swarm of angry critics buzzing about him.  He will be called a
heretic, a heathen, a cold-blooded freak of nature.  As for the
woman who hesitates to subscribe all the thirty-nine articles of
romantic love, if such a one dares to put her reluctance into words,
she is certain to be accused either of unwomanly ambition or of
feminine disappointment.

Let us make haste, then, to get back for safety to the
ornithological aspect of the subject.  Here there can be no
penalties for heresy.  And here I make bold to avow my conviction
that the pairing season is not the only point of interest in the
life of the birds; nor is the instinct by which they mate altogether
and beyond comparison the noblest passion that stirs their feathered
breasts.