changing skies:
I hear the rushing of the blast
That through the snowy valley flies.

"Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.

"For thou to northern lands again
The glad and glorious sun dost bring;
And them hast joined the gentle train,
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

"And in thy reign of blast and storm
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the blue of May."

This is all as strictly true as if it were drawn up for an affidavit.
March, as we all know, is the eldest daughter of Winter, and bitterly
like her grim sire. The snow which has melted from the uplands lingers
in the valleys; the storms, and the cloudy skies, and the rushing blasts
mark the sullen retreat of winter; but the days are growing longer, the
sun mounts higher, and sometimes a soft and vernal air flows from the
blue sky, like Burns's daisy "glinting forth" amid the storm.

March and April come and go, and May succeeds. Hers is not quite the
"blue, voluptuous eye" she wears in the portraits which poets paint of
her, and those who court her smiles are sometimes chilled by decidedly
wintry glances. Bryant gives us her best aspect:--

"The sun of May was bright in middle heaven,
And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills,
And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light.
Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds
Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom,
The robin warbled forth his full clear note
For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods,
Where young and half-transparent leaves scarce cast
A shade, gay circles of anemones
Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers,
Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternut
And quivering poplar to the roving breeze
Gave a balsamic fragrance."

How admirable this is! And with what truth, we had almost said courage,
the poet makes his report. The emerald wheat-fields, the rosy buds of
the apple-tree, the half-transparent leaves of the trees, the anemones
on their restless stalks, the shad-bush (_Amelanchier Botryapium_), the
quivering poplars, and the peculiar balsamic odor which one perceives in
the woods at that season are so exactly what we find in our New-England
May! How much better these distinct statements are than a tissue of
gene