But what child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, where Spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails, and the misty pennon of the East-wind nailed to the mast!  Yet even here, and in the stormy month of March even, there are bright, warm mornings, when we open our windows to inhale the balmy air.  The pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the whirring sound of wings.  Old flies crawl out of the cracks, to sun themselves; and think it is summer.  They die in their conceit; and so do our hearts within us, when the cold sea-breath comes from the eastern sea; and again,

“The driving hail

Upon the window beats with icy flail.”

The red-flowering maple is first in blossom, its beautiful purple flowers unfolding a fortnight before the leaves.  The moose-wood follows, with rose-colored buds and leaves; and the dog-wood, robed in the white of its own pure blossoms.  Thencomes the sudden rain-storm; and the birds fly to and fro, and shriek.  Where do they hide themselves in such storms? at what firesides dry their feathery cloaks?  At the fireside of the great, hospitable sun, to-morrow, not before;—­they must sit in wet garments until then.

In all climates Spring is beautiful.  In the South it is intoxicating, and sets a poet beside himself.  The birds begin to sing;—­they utter a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an answer in the silent woods.  Those green-coated musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the neighbouring marshes.  They, too, belong to the orchestra of Nature; whose vast theatre is again opened, though the doors have been so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with snow and frost, like cobwebs.  This is the prelude, which announces the rising of the broad green curtain.  Already the grass shoots forth.  The waters leap with thrilling pulse through the veins of the earth; the sap through the veins of the plants and trees; and the blood through the veins of man.  What a thrill of delight in spring-time!  What a joy in being and moving!  Men are at work in gardens; and in the air there is an odor of the fresh earth.  The leaf-buds begin to swell and blush.  The white blossoms of the cherry hang upon the boughs like snow-flakes; and ere long our next-door neighbours will be completely hidden from us by the dense green foliage.  The May-flowers open their soft blue eyes.  Children are let loose in the fields and gardens.  They hold butter-cups under each others’ chins, to see if they love butter.  And the little girls adorn themselves with chains and curls of dandelions; pull out the yellow leaves to see if the schoolboy loves them, and blow the down from the leafless stalk, to find out if their mothers want them at home.

And at night so cloudless and so still!  Not a voice of living thing,—­not a whisper of leaf or waving bough,—­not a breath of wind,—­not a sound upon the earth nor in the air!  And overhead bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant with innumerable stars, like the inverted bellof some blue flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and breathing fragrance.  Or if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and rain; but clouds that melt and fall in showers.  One does not wish to sleep; but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound of the dropping rain.