His eyes glittered like dark burning balls and his black tail feathers were as bright as metal.

As the sun appeared and sent out its first gentle rays, a heath hen flew up toward the forest. Instantly the smallest cock fluttered after her and then the entire band scattered, vanishing among the high trees singly or in pairs.

Now again Martin the hunchback heard the jubilant song of the lark sounding from the skies.

After a few more days of spring, the birds of passage returned from the south. First of all came the wild geese, in orderly wedgelike squadrons, one above the other. They flew in the evenings and in the dawns toward their home in the north. By day they generally rested on the banks of streams, sentries providing security by constant watchfulness. But here in the rolling country they hardly ever stopped. They only floated by, wedge after wedge in the clear sky. The freedom song of these wanderers rang down inspiringly from high above.

Martin loved the wild geese, loved to gaze at their wide, open formations that always etched the same three-cornered line in the moonlit or early-morning air. Thrilled, he listened to their triumphant call.

Sometime later the swallows arrived. It was their chirping and rustling that gave definite promise spring was really coming. Their darting and dipping was like a mischievous game filling the world above the trees with gaiety.

The trees of the forest and those in Martin’s garden now put out tender green foliage. Bushes were decorated with buds. The grass of the fields and meadows grew faster. The blooms of violet, dandelion, crocus and hepatica strewed the green turf with rich color and fragrance. The sloe flowered and in the garden the forsythia showed yellow petals motionless in the still air.

Bumblebees, wasps, soft-winged beetles, countless shining flies buzzed around.

Through the forest the cuckoo sent his quiet throaty giggle. Restlessly the golden oriole swung from tree to tree singing his poem of joy without pause. “I am he-ere!”

In vain the jay bade him with loud screeches to be quiet: “Oh, shut up!” But the oriole paid no heed. The jay imitated his singing as he had already mimicked the blackbird’s, the finch’s, the dove’s. Annoyed and confused, the oriole kept quiet for a few moments. Immediately the blackbird made friends with him. She whispered, “Tell me about those countries where there’s always summer. Tell me about the great water you crossed.”

But the oriole’s answer was only, “Oh, yes, I am he-ere!” He hurled himself into the air and flew to the next tree.

The blackbird sat alone. Then she searched the nearby branches until she found the nightingale. She asked her the same questions.

The nightingale replied softly, “The water doesn’t frighten me. I cross it quickly, and find sunny lands with wonderful food.”

“Then why does none of you stay there—not a single one—if it’s so beautiful?”

“Stay there?” The nightingale was amazed. “How would that be possible? We have to come back here. This is our homeland. There we’re just visitors.”

“My ancient ancestors,” explained the blackbird, “once upon a time also took these journeys. But their descendants, their grandchildren and great-grandchildren, loved their homeland so much they didn’t want to wander any more. We became unused to travel.