And Yet This Man - He Goes Out Of
Doors Without His Overcoat, Catches Cold, And Is Buried In Three
Days.
"On the 21st of January," exclaimed Mercier, "all kings felt
for the backs of their necks." This might be said of all men in New
England in the spring.
This is the season that all the poets
celebrate. Let us suppose that once, in Thessaly, there was a genial
spring, and there was a poet who sang of it. All later poets have
sung the same song. "Voila tout!" That is the root of poetry.
Another delusion. We hear toward evening, high in air, the "conk" of
the wild-geese. Looking up, you see the black specks of that
adventurous triangle, winging along in rapid flight northward.
Perhaps it takes a wide returning sweep, in doubt; but it disappears
in the north. There is no mistaking that sign. This unmusical
"conk" is sweeter than the "kerchunk" of the bull-frog. 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 say so, in the blue sky, and there is.
softness in the south wind. The song-sparrow is singing in the
apple-tree. Another bird-note is heard, - two long, musical whistles,
liquid but metallic. A brown bird this one, darker than the
song-sparrow, and without the latter's light stripes, and smaller,
yet bigger than the queer little chipping-bird. He wants a familiar
name, this sweet singer, who appears to be a sort of sparrow. He is
such a contrast to the blue-jays, who have arrived in a passion, as
usual, screaming and scolding, the elegant, spoiled beauties! They
wrangle from morning till night, these beautiful, high-tempered
aristocrats.
Encouraged by the birds, by the bursting of the lilac-buds, by the
peeping-up of the crocuses, by tradition, by the sweet flutterings of
a double hope, another sign appears. This is the Easter bonnets,
most delightful flowers of the year, emblems of innocence, hope,
devotion. Alas that they have to be worn under umbrellas, so much
thought, freshness, feeling, tenderness have gone into them! And a
northeast storm of rain, accompanied with hail, comes to crown all
these virtues with that of self-sacrifice. The frail hat is offered
up to the implacable season. In fact, Nature is not to be
forestalled nor hurried in this way. Things cannot be pushed.
Nature hesitates. The woman who does not hesitate in April is lost.
The appearance of the bonnets is premature. The blackbirds see it.
They assemble. For two days they hold a noisy convention, with high
debate, in the tree-tops. Something is going to happen.
Say, rather, the usual thing is about to occur. There is a wind
called Auster, another called Eurus, another called Septentrio,
another Meridies, besides Aquilo, Vulturnus, Africus. There are the
eight great winds of the classical dictionary, - arsenal of mystery
and terror and of the unknown, - besides the wind Euroaquilo of St.
Luke. This is the wind that drives an apostle wishing to gain Crete
upon the African Syrtis. If St. Luke had been tacking to get to
Hyannis, this wind would have forced him into Holmes's Hole. The
Euroaquilo is no respecter of persons.
These winds, and others unnamed and more terrible, circle about New
England. They form a ring about it: they lie in wait on its borders,
but only to spring upon it and harry it.
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