e father of Minnette, looking out of the window upon
the wide waste of snow, and the evergreens bent to the ground with the
weight of it, says, "It looks like the depths of spring." To this has
man come: to his facetiousness has succeeded sarcasm. It is the first of
May.

Then follows a day of bright sun and blue sky. The birds open the
morning with a lively chorus. In spite of Auster, Euroclydon, low
pressure, and the government bureau, things have gone forward. By the
roadside, where the snow has just melted, the grass is of the color of
emerald. The heart leaps to see it. On the lawn there are twenty robins,
lively, noisy, worm-seeking. Their yellow breasts contrast with the
tender green of the newly-springing clover and herd's-grass. If they
would only stand still, we might think the dandelions had blossomed. On
an evergreen-bough, looking at them, sits a graceful bird, whose back is
bluer than the sky. There is a red tint on the tips of the boughs of
the hard maple. With Nature, color is life. See, already, green, yellow,
blue, red! In a few days--is it not so?--through the green masses of the
trees will flash the orange of the oriole, the scarlet of the tanager;
perhaps tomorrow.

But, in fact, the next day opens a little sourly. It is almost clear
overhead: but the clouds thicken on the horizon; they look leaden; they
threaten rain. It certainly will rain: the air feels like rain, or
snow. By noon it begins to snow, and you hear the desolate cry of the
phoebe-bird. It is a fine snow, gentle at first; but it soon drives in
swerving lines, for the wind is from the southwest, from the west,
from the northeast, from the zenith (one of the ordinary winds of New
England), from all points of the compass. The fine snow becomes rain;
it becomes large snow; it melts as it falls; it freezes as it falls. At
last a storm sets in, and night shuts down upon the bleak scene.

During the night there is a change. It thunders and lightens. Toward
morning there is a brilliant display of aurora borealis. This is a sign
of colder weather.

The gardener is in despair; so is the sportsman. The trout take no
pleasure in biting in such weather.

Paragraphs appear in the newspapers, copied from the paper of last year,
saying that this is the most severe spring in thirty years. Every one,
in fact, believes that it is, and also that next year the spring will be
early. Man is the most gullible of creatures.

And with reason: he trusts