a
mingling of the ever increasing humidity, the dust particles in the air
and the smoke from many April grass fires. To the left of the meadow
there is a sweep of arable land where disc harrows, seeders, and ploughs
are at work. The unsightly corn stalks of the winter have been laid low,
the brown fields are as neat and tidy as if they had been newly swept;
and this is Iowa in April.

Up and down the river the willow leaves are just unfolding, bordering the
stream with tender green. The tassels of the pussy willows, which were
white in March, are now rosy and gold, due to the development of the
anthers. The aspens at the front of the wood are thickly hung with the
long yellowish-white tassels and look like masses of floss silk among the
tops of the darker trees. A big cottonwood is at its most picturesque
period in the whole year. The dark red anthers make the myriads of
catkins look like elongated strawberries. Tomorrow, or the next day,
these red anthers will break and discharge their yellow pollen and then
the tassels will be golden instead of strawberry-colored. Spring seems to
unfold her beauties slowly but she has something new each day for the
faithful.

The ash, the hackberry, the oaks, the linden, the locusts on the hill and
the solitary old honey-locust down by the river's brink are as yet
unresponsive to the smiles of spring. The plum, the crab apple, the
hawthorn and the wild cherry are but just beginning to push green points
between their bud scales. But the elms are a glory of dull gold; every
twig is fringed with blossoms. The maples have lost their fleecy white
softness, for the staminate flowers which were so beautiful in March have
withered now. But the fruit blossoms remind us of Lowell's line, "The
maple puts her corals on in May." In Iowa he might have made it April
instead of May. But that would have spoiled his verse.

* * * * *

For long we sit and drink in the beauty of the scene. Meanwhile the birds
on this wooded slope are asking us to use our ears as well as our eyes.
Such a mingling of bird voices! The "spring o' th' year" of the meadow
larks and the mingled squeaks and music of the robins are brought up by
the wind from the river bottom, and the shrill clear "phe-be" of the
chickadee is one of the prettiest sounds now, just as it was in February.
Pretty soon a bevy of them come flitting and talking along, like a girl
botany class on the search. Before they