'Did you hear that?' said a blackbird.
'Hear what?' asked the robin.
'That quick twittering and chirping. It's coming from that bush over there,' the blackbird replied, continuing to peck between freshly mown grass for food.
'Ah yes...' interrupted the old black crow, 'I heard it too. It's rather nice,' he croaked, amidst swaying branches of a half dead tree, flapping his outstretched wings.
The chattering and chirping was endless; before a flash of blue tails appeared along a twiggy bush low down, alongside a narrow path of vegetation.
'Then it must be Spring,' replied the robin, hopping across the ground, from side to side, as if in a merry dance.
The blackbird looked down from where he had flown high in a treetop, bursting forth with vivid green leaves of Spring's adornment.
'Sing... sing to the hilltops, to the newly flowered daffodils, to the sunbeams emerging from the eastern sky,' he cried. 'Sing to all who may hear.'
He began a loud, almost constant whistling.
The robin looked up at the blackbird, singing across the sweet-smelling grass toward rosy-fingered dawn.
'But no one will hear us,' replied the robin, all forlorn.
'I will said the blind man, sitting on a seat nearby. 'I cannot see, but I will hear your song.
'Oh!' said the robin with glee. 'Then I'll begin.'
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