rog. Probably these birds are not idiots, and
probably they turned back south again after spying out the nakedness of
the land; but they have made their sign. Next day there is a rumor that
somebody has seen a bluebird. This rumor, unhappily for the bird (which
will freeze to death), is confirmed. In less than three days everybody
has seen a bluebird; and favored people have heard a robin or rather the
yellow-breasted thrush, misnamed a robin in America. This is no doubt
true: for angle-worms have been seen on the surface of the ground; and,
wherever there is anything to eat, the robin is promptly on hand. About
this time you notice, in protected, sunny spots, that the grass has a
little color. But you say that it is the grass of last fall. It is very
difficult to tell when the grass of last fall became the grass of this
spring. It looks "warmed over." The green is rusty. The lilac-buds have
certainly swollen a little, and so have those of the soft maple. In the
rain the grass does not brighten as you think it ought to, and it is
only when the rain turns to snow that you see any decided green color
by contrast with the white. The snow gradually covers everything very
quietly, however. Winter comes back without the least noise or bustle,
tireless, malicious, implacable. Neither party in the fight now makes
much fuss over it; and you might think that Nature had surrendered
altogether, if you did not find about this time, in the Woods, on
the edge of a snow-bank, the modest blossoms of the trailing arbutus,
shedding their delicious perfume. The bravest are always the tenderest,
says the poet. The season, in its blind way, is trying to express
itself.

And it is assisted. There is a cheerful chatter in the trees. The
blackbirds have come, and in numbers, households of them, villages of
them,--communes, rather. They do not believe in God, these black-birds.
They think they can take care of themselves. We shall see. But they
are well informed. They arrived just as the last snow-bank melted. One
cannot say now that there is not greenness in the grass; not in the
wide fields, to be sure, but on lawns and banks sloping south. The
dark-spotted leaves of the dog-tooth violet begin to show. Even
Fahrenheit's contrivance joins in the upward movement: the mercury has
suddenly gone up from thirty degrees to sixty-five degrees. It is time
for the ice-man. Ice has no sooner disappeared than we desire it.

There is a smile, if one may s