is veiled, but we catch such glimpses through the veil.
The bees are getting pollen from the pussy-willows and soft
maples, and the first honey from the arbutus.

It is at this time that the fruit and seed catalogues are
interesting reading, and that the cuts of farm implements have a
new fascination. The soil calls to one. All over the country,
people are responding to the call, and are buying farms and
moving upon them. My father and mother moved upon their farm in
the spring of 1828; I moved here upon mine in March, 1874.

I see the farmers, now going along their stone fences and
replacing the stones that the frost or the sheep and cattle have
thrown off, and here and there laying up a bit of wall that has
tumbled down.

There is rare music now in the unmusical call of the
ph[oe]be-bird--it is so suggestive.

The drying road appeals to one as it never does at any other
season. When I was a farm-boy, it was about this time that I used
to get out of my boots for half an hour and let my bare feet feel
the ground beneath them once more. There was a smooth, dry, level
place in the road near home, and along this I used to run, and
exult in that sense of lightfootedness which is so keen at such
times. What a feeling of freedom, of emancipation, and of joy in
the returning spring I used to experience in those warm April
twilights!

I think every man whose youth was spent on the farm, whatever his
life since, must have moments at this season when he longs to go
back to the soil. How its sounds, its odors, its occupations, its
associations, come back to him! Would he not like to return again
to help rake up the litter of straw and stalks about the barn, or
about the stack on the hill where the grass is starting? Would he
not like to help pick the stone from the meadow, or mend the
brush fence on the mountain where the sheep roam, or hunt up old
Brindle's calf in the woods, or gather oven-wood for his mother
to start again the big brick oven with its dozen loaves of rye
bread, or see the plow crowding the lingering snow-banks on the
side-hill, or help his father break and swingle and hatchel the
flax in the barnyard?

When I see a farm advertised for rent or for sale in the spring,
I want to go at once and look it over. All the particulars
interest me--so many acres of meadow-land, so many of woodland,
so many of pasture--the garden, the orchard, the outbuildings,
the springs, the creek--I see them all, and am alread