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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3131-0.txt b/3131-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1a0fbfc --- /dev/null +++ b/3131-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,868 @@ +Project Gutenberg's How Spring Came in New England, by Charles Dudley Warner + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: How Spring Came in New England + +Author: Charles Dudley Warner + +Release Date: August 20, 2016 [EBook #3131] +Last Updated: February 24, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND + +By Charles Dudley Warner + + + +New England is the battle-ground of the seasons. It is La Vendee. To +conquer it is only to begin the fight. When it is completely subdued, +what kind of weather have you? None whatever. + +What is this New England? A country? No: a camp. It is alternately +invaded by the hyperborean legions and by the wilting sirens of the +tropics. Icicles hang always on its northern heights; its seacoasts +are fringed with mosquitoes. There is for a third of the year a contest +between the icy air of the pole and the warm wind of the gulf. The +result of this is a compromise: the compromise is called Thaw. It is the +normal condition in New England. The New-Englander is a person who is +always just about to be warm and comfortable. This is the stuff of which +heroes and martyrs are made. A person thoroughly heated or frozen is +good for nothing. Look at the Bongos. Examine (on the map) the Dog-Rib +nation. The New-Englander, by incessant activity, hopes to get warm. +Edwards made his theology. Thank God, New England is not in Paris! + +Hudson's Bay, Labrador, Grinnell's Land, a whole zone of ice and +walruses, make it unpleasant for New England. This icy cover, like the +lid of a pot, is always suspended over it: when it shuts down, that is +winter. This would be intolerable, were it not for the Gulf Stream. The +Gulf Stream is a benign, liquid force, flowing from under the ribs of +the equator,--a white knight of the South going up to battle the giant +of the North. The two meet in New England, and have it out there. + +This is the theory; but, in fact, the Gulf Stream is mostly a delusion +as to New England. For Ireland it is quite another thing. Potatoes ripen +in Ireland before they are planted in New England. That is the reason +the Irish emigrate--they desire two crops the same year. The Gulf Stream +gets shunted off from New England by the formation of the coast below: +besides, it is too shallow to be of any service. Icebergs float down +against its surface-current, and fill all the New-England air with +the chill of death till June: after that the fogs drift down from +Newfoundland. There never was such a mockery as this Gulf Stream. It is +like the English influence on France, on Europe. Pitt was an iceberg. + +Still New England survives. To what purpose? I say, as an example: +the politician says, to produce “Poor Boys.” Bah! The poor boy is an +anachronism in civilization. He is no longer poor, and he is not a boy. +In Tartary they would hang him for sucking all the asses' milk that +belongs to the children: in New England he has all the cream from the +Public Cow. What can you expect in a country where one knows not today +what the weather will be tomorrow? Climate makes the man. Suppose he, +too, dwells on the Channel Islands, where he has all climates, and is +superior to all. Perhaps he will become the prophet, the seer, of his +age, as he is its Poet. The New-Englander is the man without a climate. +Why is his country recognized? You won't find it on any map of Paris. + +And yet Paris is the universe. Strange anomaly! The greater must include +the less; but how if the less leaks out? This sometimes happens. + +And yet there are phenomena in that country worth observing. One of them +is the conduct of Nature from the 1st of March to the 1st of June, +or, as some say, from the vernal equinox to the summer solstice. As +Tourmalain remarked, “You'd better observe the unpleasant than to be +blind.” This was in 802. Tourmalain is dead; so is Gross Alain; so is +little Pee-Wee: we shall all be dead before things get any better. + +That is the law. Without revolution there is nothing. What is +revolution? It is turning society over, and putting the best underground +for a fertilizer. Thus only will things grow. What has this to do +with New England? In the language of that flash of social lightning, +Beranger, “May the Devil fly away with me if I can see!” + +Let us speak of the period in the year in New England when winter +appears to hesitate. Except in the calendar, the action is ironical; +but it is still deceptive. The sun mounts high: it is above the horizon +twelve hours at a time. The snow gradually sneaks away in liquid +repentance. One morning it is gone, except in shaded spots and close by +the fences. From about the trunks of the trees it has long departed: +the tree is a living thing, and its growth repels it. The fence is dead, +driven into the earth in a rigid line by man: the fence, in short, is +dogma: icy prejudice lingers near it. The snow has disappeared; but the +landscape is a ghastly sight,--bleached, dead. The trees are stakes; the +grass is of no color; and the bare soil is not brown with a healthful +brown; life has gone out of it. Take up a piece of turf: it is a clod, +without warmth, inanimate. Pull it in pieces: there is no hope in it: +it is a part of the past; it is the refuse of last year. This is the +condition to which winter has reduced the landscape. When the snow, +which was a pall, is removed, you see how ghastly it is. The face of the +country is sodden. It needs now only the south wind to sweep over it, +full of the damp breath of death; and that begins to blow. No prospect +would be more dreary. + +And yet the south wind fills credulous man with joy. He opens the +window. He goes out, and catches cold. He is stirred by the mysterious +coming of something. If there is sign of change nowhere else, we detect +it in the newspaper. In sheltered corners of that truculent instrument +for the diffusion of the prejudices of the few among the many begin to +grow the violets of tender sentiment, the early greens of yearning. The +poet feels the sap of the new year before the marsh-willow. He blossoms +in advance of the catkins. Man is greater than Nature. The poet is +greater than man: he is nature on two legs,--ambulatory. + +At first there is no appearance of conflict. The winter garrison seems +to have withdrawn. The invading hosts of the South are entering without +opposition. The hard ground softens; the sun lies warm upon the southern +bank, and water oozes from its base. If you examine the buds of the +lilac and the flowering shrubs, you cannot say that they are swelling; +but the varnish with which they were coated in the fall to keep out +the frost seems to be cracking. If the sugar-maple is hacked, it will +bleed,--the pure white blood of Nature. + +At the close of a sunny day the western sky has a softened aspect: its +color, we say, has warmth in it On such a day you may meet a caterpillar +on the footpath, and turn out for him. The house-fly thaws out; a +company of cheerful wasps take possession of a chamber-window. It +is oppressive indoors at night, and the window is raised. A flock of +millers, born out of time, flutter in. It is most unusual weather for +the season: it is so every year. The delusion is complete, when, on a +mild evening, the tree-toads open their brittle-brattle chorus on the +edge of the pond. The citizen asks his neighbor, “Did you hear the +frogs last night?” That seems to open the new world. One thinks of his +childhood and its innocence, and of his first loves. It fills one with +sentiment and a tender longing, this voice of the tree-toad. Man is +a strange being. Deaf to the prayers of friends, to the sermons and +warnings of the church, to the calls of duty, to the pleadings of his +better nature, he is touched by the tree-toad. The signs of the spring +multiply. The passer in the street in the evening sees the maid-servant +leaning on the area-gate in sweet converse with some one leaning on the +other side; or in the park, which is still too damp for anything but +true affection, he sees her seated by the side of one who is able to +protect her from the policeman, and hears her sigh, “How sweet it is to +be with those we love to be with!” + +All this is very well; but next morning the newspaper nips these early +buds of sentiment. The telegraph announces, “Twenty feet of snow at +Ogden, on the Pacific Road; winds blowing a gale at Omaha, and snow +still falling; mercury frozen at Duluth; storm-signals at Port Huron.” + +Where now are your tree-toads, your young love, your early season? +Before noon it rains, by three o'clock it hails; before night the +bleak storm-cloud of the northwest envelops the sky; a gale is raging, +whirling about a tempest of snow. By morning the snow is drifted in +banks, and two feet deep on a level. Early in the seventeenth century, +Drebbel of Holland invented the weather-glass. Before that, men had +suffered without knowing the degree of their suffering. A century +later, Romer hit upon the idea of using mercury in a thermometer; and +Fahrenheit constructed the instrument which adds a new because distinct +terror to the weather. Science names and registers the ills of life; and +yet it is a gain to know the names and habits of our enemies. It is with +some satisfaction in our knowledge that we say the thermometer marks +zero. + +In fact, the wild beast called Winter, untamed, has returned, and taken +possession of New England. Nature, giving up her melting mood, has +retired into dumbness and white stagnation. But we are wise. We say it +is better to have it now than later. We have a conceit of understanding +things. + +The sun is in alliance with the earth. Between the two the snow is +uncomfortable. Compelled to go, it decides to go suddenly. The first day +there is slush with rain; the second day, mud with hail; the third day +a flood with sunshine. The thermometer declares that the temperature is +delightful. Man shivers and sneezes. His neighbor dies of some disease +newly named by science; but he dies all the same as if it hadn't been +newly named. Science has not discovered any name that is not fatal. + +This is called the breaking-up of winter. + +Nature seems for some days to be in doubt, not exactly able to stand +still, not daring to put forth anything tender. Man says that the worst +is over. If he should live a thousand years, he would be deceived every +year. And this is called an age of skepticism. Man never believed in so +many things as now: he never believed so much in himself. As to Nature, +he knows her secrets: he can predict what she will do. He communicates +with the next world by means of an alphabet which he has invented. +He talks with souls at the other end of the spirit-wire. To be sure, +neither of them says anything; but they talk. Is not that something? He +suspends the law of gravitation as to his own body--he has learned how +to evade it--as tyrants suspend the legal writs of habeas corpus. When +Gravitation asks for his body, she cannot have it. He says of himself, +“I am infallible; I am sublime.” He believes all these things. He is +master of the elements. Shakespeare sends him a poem just made, and as +good a poem as the man could write himself. 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. They follow each other in +contracting circles, in whirlwinds, in maelstroms of the atmosphere: +they meet and cross each other, all at a moment. This New England is set +apart: it is the exercise-ground of the weather. Storms bred elsewhere +come here full-grown: they come in couples, in quartets, in choruses. +If New England were not mostly rock, these winds would carry it off; but +they would bring it all back again, as happens with the sandy portions. +What sharp Eurus carries to Jersey, Africus brings back. When the air +is not full of snow, it is full of dust. This is called one of the +compensations of Nature. + +This is what happened after the convention of the blackbirds: A moaning +south wind brought rain; a southwest wind turned the rain to snow; what +is called a zephyr, out of the west, drifted the snow; a north wind +sent the mercury far below freezing. Salt added to snow increases the +evaporation and the cold. This was the office of the northeast wind: it +made the snow damp, and increased its bulk; but then it rained a little, +and froze, thawing at the same time. The air was full of fog and +snow and rain. And then the wind changed, went back round the circle, +reversing everything, like dragging a cat by its tail. The mercury +approached zero. This was nothing uncommon. We know all these winds. We +are familiar with the different “forms of water.” + +All this was only the prologue, the overture. If one might be permitted +to speak scientifically, it was only the tuning of the instruments. The +opera was to come,--the Flying Dutchman of the air. + +There is a wind called Euroclydon: it would be one of the Eumenides; +only they are women. It is half-brother to the gigantic storm-wind of +the equinox. The Euroclydon is not a wind: it is a monster. Its breath +is frost. It has snow in its hair. It is something terrible. It peddles +rheumatism, and plants consumption. + +The Euroclydon knew just the moment to strike into the discord of the +weather in New England. From its lair about Point Desolation, from the +glaciers of the Greenland continent, sweeping round the coast, leaving +wrecks in its track, it marched right athwart the other conflicting +winds, churning them into a fury, and inaugurating chaos. It was the +Marat of the elements. It was the revolution marching into the “dreaded +wood of La Sandraie.” + +Let us sum it all up in one word: it was something for which there is no +name. + +Its track was destruction. On the sea it leaves wrecks. What does it +leave on land? Funerals. When it subsides, New England is prostrate. It +has left its legacy: this legacy is coughs and patent medicines. This +is an epic; this is destiny. You think Providence is expelled out of New +England? Listen! + +Two days after Euroclydon, I found in the woods the hepatica--earliest +of wildwood flowers, evidently not intimidated by the wild work of the +armies trampling over New England--daring to hold up its tender blossom. +One could not but admire the quiet pertinacity of Nature. She had been +painting the grass under the snow. In spots it was vivid green. There +was a mild rain,--mild, but chilly. The clouds gathered, and broke away +in light, fleecy masses. There was a softness on the hills. The birds +suddenly were on every tree, glancing through the air, filling it with +song, sometimes shaking raindrops from their wings. The cat brings in +one in his mouth. He thinks the season has begun, and the game-laws are +off. He is fond of Nature, this cat, as we all are: he wants to possess +it. At four o'clock in the morning there is a grand dress-rehearsal of +the birds. Not all the pieces of the orchestra have arrived; but there +are enough. The grass-sparrow has come. This is certainly charming. The +gardener comes to talk about seeds: he uncovers the straw-berries and +the grape-vines, salts the asparagus-bed, and plants the peas. You ask +if he planted them with a shot-gun. In the shade there is still frost in +the ground. Nature, in fact, still hesitates; puts forth one hepatica at +a time, and waits to see the result; pushes up the grass slowly, perhaps +draws it in at night. + +This indecision we call Spring. + +It becomes painful. It is like being on the rack for ninety days, +expecting every day a reprieve. Men grow hardened to it, however. + +This is the order with man,--hope, surprise, bewilderment, disgust, +facetiousness. The people in New England finally become facetious about +spring. This is the last stage: it is the most dangerous. When a man +has come to make a jest of misfortune, he is lost. “It bores me to die,” + said the journalist Carra to the headsman at the foot of the guillotine: +“I would like to have seen the continuation.” One is also interested to +see how spring is going to turn out. + +A day of sun, of delusive bird-singing, sight of the mellow earth,--all +these begin to beget confidence. The night, even, has been warm. But +what is this in the morning journal, at breakfast?--“An area of low +pressure is moving from the Tortugas north.” You shudder. + +What is this Low Pressure itself,--it? It is something frightful, low, +crouching, creeping, advancing; it is a foreboding; it is misfortune by +telegraph; it is the “'93” of the atmosphere. + +This low pressure is a creation of Old Prob. What is that? Old Prob. is +the new deity of the Americans, greater than AEolus, more despotic than +Sans-Culotte. The wind is his servitor, the lightning his messenger. He +is a mystery made of six parts electricity, and one part “guess.” This +deity is worshiped by the Americans; his name is on every man's lips +first in the morning; he is the Frankenstein of modern science. Housed +at Washington, his business is to direct the storms of the whole country +upon New England, and to give notice in advance. This he does. Sometimes +he sends the storm, and then gives notice. This is mere playfulness on +his part: it is all one to him. His great power is in the low pressure. + +On the Bexar plains of Texas, among the hills of the Presidio, along the +Rio Grande, low pressure is bred; it is nursed also in the Atchafalaya +swamps of Louisiana; it moves by the way of Thibodeaux and Bonnet Carre. +The southwest is a magazine of atmospheric disasters. Low pressure may +be no worse than the others: it is better known, and is most used to +inspire terror. It can be summoned any time also from the everglades of +Florida, from the morasses of the Okeechobee. + +When the New-Englander sees this in his news paper, he knows what it +means. He has twenty-four hours' warning; but what can he do? Nothing +but watch its certain advance by telegraph. He suffers in anticipation. +That is what Old Prob. has brought about, suffering by anticipation. +This low pressure advances against the wind. The wind is from the +northeast. Nothing could be more unpleasant than a northeast wind? Wait +till low pressure joins it. Together they make spring in New England. +A northeast storm from the southwest!--there is no bitterer satire than +this. It lasts three days. After that the weather changes into something +winter-like. + +A solitary song-sparrow, without a note of joy, hops along the snow to +the dining-room window, and, turning his little head aside, looks up. He +is hungry and cold. Little Minnette, clasping her hands behind her +back, stands and looks at him, and says, “Po' birdie!” They appear to +understand each other. The sparrow gets his crumb; but he knows too much +to let Minnette get hold of him. Neither of these little things could +take care of itself in a New-England spring not in the depths of it. +This is what the 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 his eyes, and not his instinct. During +this most sour weather of the year, the anemone blossoms; and, almost +immediately after, the fairy pencil, the spring beauty, the dog-tooth +violet, and the true violet. In clouds and fog, and rain and snow, and +all discouragement, Nature pushes on her forces with progressive haste +and rapidity. Before one is aware, all the lawns and meadows are deeply +green, the trees are opening their tender leaves. In a burst of sunshine +the cherry-trees are white, the Judas-tree is pink, the hawthorns give a +sweet smell. The air is full of sweetness; the world, of color. + +In the midst of a chilling northeast storm the ground is strewed with +the white-and-pink blossoms from the apple-trees. The next day the +mercury stands at eighty degrees. Summer has come. + +There was no Spring. + +The winter is over. You think so? Robespierre thought the Revolution +was over in the beginning of his last Thermidor. He lost his head after +that. + +When the first buds are set, and the corn is up, and the cucumbers have +four leaves, a malicious frost steals down from the north and kills them +in a night. + +That is the last effort of spring. The mercury then mounts to ninety +degrees. The season has been long, but, on the whole, successful. Many +people survive it. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of How Spring Came in New England +by Charles Dudley Warner + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND *** + +***** This file should be named 3131-0.txt or 3131-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/3/3131/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: How Spring Came in New England + +Author: Charles Dudley Warner + +Release Date: August 22, 2006 [EBook #3131] +Last Updated: February 24, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + + <h1> + HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Charles Dudley Warner + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + New England is the battle-ground of the seasons. It is La Vendee. To + conquer it is only to begin the fight. When it is completely subdued, what + kind of weather have you? None whatever. + </p> + <p> + What is this New England? A country? No: a camp. It is alternately invaded + by the hyperborean legions and by the wilting sirens of the tropics. + Icicles hang always on its northern heights; its seacoasts are fringed + with mosquitoes. There is for a third of the year a contest between the + icy air of the pole and the warm wind of the gulf. The result of this is a + compromise: the compromise is called Thaw. It is the normal condition in + New England. The New-Englander is a person who is always just about to be + warm and comfortable. This is the stuff of which heroes and martyrs are + made. A person thoroughly heated or frozen is good for nothing. Look at + the Bongos. Examine (on the map) the Dog-Rib nation. The New-Englander, by + incessant activity, hopes to get warm. Edwards made his theology. Thank + God, New England is not in Paris! + </p> + <p> + Hudson's Bay, Labrador, Grinnell's Land, a whole zone of ice and walruses, + make it unpleasant for New England. This icy cover, like the lid of a pot, + is always suspended over it: when it shuts down, that is winter. This + would be intolerable, were it not for the Gulf Stream. The Gulf Stream is + a benign, liquid force, flowing from under the ribs of the equator,—a + white knight of the South going up to battle the giant of the North. The + two meet in New England, and have it out there. + </p> + <p> + This is the theory; but, in fact, the Gulf Stream is mostly a delusion as + to New England. For Ireland it is quite another thing. Potatoes ripen in + Ireland before they are planted in New England. That is the reason the + Irish emigrate—they desire two crops the same year. The Gulf Stream + gets shunted off from New England by the formation of the coast below: + besides, it is too shallow to be of any service. Icebergs float down + against its surface-current, and fill all the New-England air with the + chill of death till June: after that the fogs drift down from + Newfoundland. There never was such a mockery as this Gulf Stream. It is + like the English influence on France, on Europe. Pitt was an iceberg. + </p> + <p> + Still New England survives. To what purpose? I say, as an example: the + politician says, to produce “Poor Boys.” Bah! The poor boy is an + anachronism in civilization. He is no longer poor, and he is not a boy. In + Tartary they would hang him for sucking all the asses' milk that belongs + to the children: in New England he has all the cream from the Public Cow. + What can you expect in a country where one knows not today what the + weather will be tomorrow? Climate makes the man. Suppose he, too, dwells + on the Channel Islands, where he has all climates, and is superior to all. + Perhaps he will become the prophet, the seer, of his age, as he is its + Poet. The New-Englander is the man without a climate. Why is his country + recognized? You won't find it on any map of Paris. + </p> + <p> + And yet Paris is the universe. Strange anomaly! The greater must include + the less; but how if the less leaks out? This sometimes happens. + </p> + <p> + And yet there are phenomena in that country worth observing. One of them + is the conduct of Nature from the 1st of March to the 1st of June, or, as + some say, from the vernal equinox to the summer solstice. As Tourmalain + remarked, “You'd better observe the unpleasant than to be blind.” This was + in 802. Tourmalain is dead; so is Gross Alain; so is little Pee-Wee: we + shall all be dead before things get any better. + </p> + <p> + That is the law. Without revolution there is nothing. What is revolution? + It is turning society over, and putting the best underground for a + fertilizer. Thus only will things grow. What has this to do with New + England? In the language of that flash of social lightning, Beranger, “May + the Devil fly away with me if I can see!” + </p> + <p> + Let us speak of the period in the year in New England when winter appears + to hesitate. Except in the calendar, the action is ironical; but it is + still deceptive. The sun mounts high: it is above the horizon twelve hours + at a time. The snow gradually sneaks away in liquid repentance. One + morning it is gone, except in shaded spots and close by the fences. From + about the trunks of the trees it has long departed: the tree is a living + thing, and its growth repels it. The fence is dead, driven into the earth + in a rigid line by man: the fence, in short, is dogma: icy prejudice + lingers near it. The snow has disappeared; but the landscape is a ghastly + sight,—bleached, dead. The trees are stakes; the grass is of no + color; and the bare soil is not brown with a healthful brown; life has + gone out of it. Take up a piece of turf: it is a clod, without warmth, + inanimate. Pull it in pieces: there is no hope in it: it is a part of the + past; it is the refuse of last year. This is the condition to which winter + has reduced the landscape. When the snow, which was a pall, is removed, + you see how ghastly it is. The face of the country is sodden. It needs now + only the south wind to sweep over it, full of the damp breath of death; + and that begins to blow. No prospect would be more dreary. + </p> + <p> + And yet the south wind fills credulous man with joy. He opens the window. + He goes out, and catches cold. He is stirred by the mysterious coming of + something. If there is sign of change nowhere else, we detect it in the + newspaper. In sheltered corners of that truculent instrument for the + diffusion of the prejudices of the few among the many begin to grow the + violets of tender sentiment, the early greens of yearning. The poet feels + the sap of the new year before the marsh-willow. He blossoms in advance of + the catkins. Man is greater than Nature. The poet is greater than man: he + is nature on two legs,—ambulatory. + </p> + <p> + At first there is no appearance of conflict. The winter garrison seems to + have withdrawn. The invading hosts of the South are entering without + opposition. The hard ground softens; the sun lies warm upon the southern + bank, and water oozes from its base. If you examine the buds of the lilac + and the flowering shrubs, you cannot say that they are swelling; but the + varnish with which they were coated in the fall to keep out the frost + seems to be cracking. If the sugar-maple is hacked, it will bleed,—the + pure white blood of Nature. + </p> + <p> + At the close of a sunny day the western sky has a softened aspect: its + color, we say, has warmth in it On such a day you may meet a caterpillar + on the footpath, and turn out for him. The house-fly thaws out; a company + of cheerful wasps take possession of a chamber-window. It is oppressive + indoors at night, and the window is raised. A flock of millers, born out + of time, flutter in. It is most unusual weather for the season: it is so + every year. The delusion is complete, when, on a mild evening, the + tree-toads open their brittle-brattle chorus on the edge of the pond. The + citizen asks his neighbor, “Did you hear the frogs last night?” That seems + to open the new world. One thinks of his childhood and its innocence, and + of his first loves. It fills one with sentiment and a tender longing, this + voice of the tree-toad. Man is a strange being. Deaf to the prayers of + friends, to the sermons and warnings of the church, to the calls of duty, + to the pleadings of his better nature, he is touched by the tree-toad. The + signs of the spring multiply. The passer in the street in the evening sees + the maid-servant leaning on the area-gate in sweet converse with some one + leaning on the other side; or in the park, which is still too damp for + anything but true affection, he sees her seated by the side of one who is + able to protect her from the policeman, and hears her sigh, “How sweet it + is to be with those we love to be with!” + </p> + <p> + All this is very well; but next morning the newspaper nips these early + buds of sentiment. The telegraph announces, “Twenty feet of snow at Ogden, + on the Pacific Road; winds blowing a gale at Omaha, and snow still + falling; mercury frozen at Duluth; storm-signals at Port Huron.” + </p> + <p> + Where now are your tree-toads, your young love, your early season? Before + noon it rains, by three o'clock it hails; before night the bleak + storm-cloud of the northwest envelops the sky; a gale is raging, whirling + about a tempest of snow. By morning the snow is drifted in banks, and two + feet deep on a level. Early in the seventeenth century, Drebbel of Holland + invented the weather-glass. Before that, men had suffered without knowing + the degree of their suffering. A century later, Romer hit upon the idea of + using mercury in a thermometer; and Fahrenheit constructed the instrument + which adds a new because distinct terror to the weather. Science names and + registers the ills of life; and yet it is a gain to know the names and + habits of our enemies. It is with some satisfaction in our knowledge that + we say the thermometer marks zero. + </p> + <p> + In fact, the wild beast called Winter, untamed, has returned, and taken + possession of New England. Nature, giving up her melting mood, has retired + into dumbness and white stagnation. But we are wise. We say it is better + to have it now than later. We have a conceit of understanding things. + </p> + <p> + The sun is in alliance with the earth. Between the two the snow is + uncomfortable. Compelled to go, it decides to go suddenly. The first day + there is slush with rain; the second day, mud with hail; the third day a + flood with sunshine. The thermometer declares that the temperature is + delightful. Man shivers and sneezes. His neighbor dies of some disease + newly named by science; but he dies all the same as if it hadn't been + newly named. Science has not discovered any name that is not fatal. + </p> + <p> + This is called the breaking-up of winter. + </p> + <p> + Nature seems for some days to be in doubt, not exactly able to stand + still, not daring to put forth anything tender. Man says that the worst is + over. If he should live a thousand years, he would be deceived every year. + And this is called an age of skepticism. Man never believed in so many + things as now: he never believed so much in himself. As to Nature, he + knows her secrets: he can predict what she will do. He communicates with + the next world by means of an alphabet which he has invented. He talks + with souls at the other end of the spirit-wire. To be sure, neither of + them says anything; but they talk. Is not that something? He suspends the + law of gravitation as to his own body—he has learned how to evade it—as + tyrants suspend the legal writs of habeas corpus. When Gravitation asks + for his body, she cannot have it. He says of himself, “I am infallible; I + am sublime.” He believes all these things. He is master of the elements. + Shakespeare sends him a poem just made, and as good a poem as the man + could write himself. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. They follow each other in contracting + circles, in whirlwinds, in maelstroms of the atmosphere: they meet and + cross each other, all at a moment. This New England is set apart: it is + the exercise-ground of the weather. Storms bred elsewhere come here + full-grown: they come in couples, in quartets, in choruses. If New England + were not mostly rock, these winds would carry it off; but they would bring + it all back again, as happens with the sandy portions. What sharp Eurus + carries to Jersey, Africus brings back. When the air is not full of snow, + it is full of dust. This is called one of the compensations of Nature. + </p> + <p> + This is what happened after the convention of the blackbirds: A moaning + south wind brought rain; a southwest wind turned the rain to snow; what is + called a zephyr, out of the west, drifted the snow; a north wind sent the + mercury far below freezing. Salt added to snow increases the evaporation + and the cold. This was the office of the northeast wind: it made the snow + damp, and increased its bulk; but then it rained a little, and froze, + thawing at the same time. The air was full of fog and snow and rain. And + then the wind changed, went back round the circle, reversing everything, + like dragging a cat by its tail. The mercury approached zero. This was + nothing uncommon. We know all these winds. We are familiar with the + different “forms of water.” + </p> + <p> + All this was only the prologue, the overture. If one might be permitted to + speak scientifically, it was only the tuning of the instruments. The opera + was to come,—the Flying Dutchman of the air. + </p> + <p> + There is a wind called Euroclydon: it would be one of the Eumenides; only + they are women. It is half-brother to the gigantic storm-wind of the + equinox. The Euroclydon is not a wind: it is a monster. Its breath is + frost. It has snow in its hair. It is something terrible. It peddles + rheumatism, and plants consumption. + </p> + <p> + The Euroclydon knew just the moment to strike into the discord of the + weather in New England. From its lair about Point Desolation, from the + glaciers of the Greenland continent, sweeping round the coast, leaving + wrecks in its track, it marched right athwart the other conflicting winds, + churning them into a fury, and inaugurating chaos. It was the Marat of the + elements. It was the revolution marching into the “dreaded wood of La + Sandraie.” + </p> + <p> + Let us sum it all up in one word: it was something for which there is no + name. + </p> + <p> + Its track was destruction. On the sea it leaves wrecks. What does it leave + on land? Funerals. When it subsides, New England is prostrate. It has left + its legacy: this legacy is coughs and patent medicines. This is an epic; + this is destiny. You think Providence is expelled out of New England? + Listen! + </p> + <p> + Two days after Euroclydon, I found in the woods the hepatica—earliest + of wildwood flowers, evidently not intimidated by the wild work of the + armies trampling over New England—daring to hold up its tender + blossom. One could not but admire the quiet pertinacity of Nature. She had + been painting the grass under the snow. In spots it was vivid green. There + was a mild rain,—mild, but chilly. The clouds gathered, and broke + away in light, fleecy masses. There was a softness on the hills. The birds + suddenly were on every tree, glancing through the air, filling it with + song, sometimes shaking raindrops from their wings. The cat brings in one + in his mouth. He thinks the season has begun, and the game-laws are off. + He is fond of Nature, this cat, as we all are: he wants to possess it. At + four o'clock in the morning there is a grand dress-rehearsal of the birds. + Not all the pieces of the orchestra have arrived; but there are enough. + The grass-sparrow has come. This is certainly charming. The gardener comes + to talk about seeds: he uncovers the straw-berries and the grape-vines, + salts the asparagus-bed, and plants the peas. You ask if he planted them + with a shot-gun. In the shade there is still frost in the ground. Nature, + in fact, still hesitates; puts forth one hepatica at a time, and waits to + see the result; pushes up the grass slowly, perhaps draws it in at night. + </p> + <p> + This indecision we call Spring. + </p> + <p> + It becomes painful. It is like being on the rack for ninety days, + expecting every day a reprieve. Men grow hardened to it, however. + </p> + <p> + This is the order with man,—hope, surprise, bewilderment, disgust, + facetiousness. The people in New England finally become facetious about + spring. This is the last stage: it is the most dangerous. When a man has + come to make a jest of misfortune, he is lost. “It bores me to die,” said + the journalist Carra to the headsman at the foot of the guillotine: “I + would like to have seen the continuation.” One is also interested to see + how spring is going to turn out. + </p> + <p> + A day of sun, of delusive bird-singing, sight of the mellow earth,—all + these begin to beget confidence. The night, even, has been warm. But what + is this in the morning journal, at breakfast?—“An area of low + pressure is moving from the Tortugas north.” You shudder. + </p> + <p> + What is this Low Pressure itself,—it? It is something frightful, + low, crouching, creeping, advancing; it is a foreboding; it is misfortune + by telegraph; it is the “'93” of the atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + This low pressure is a creation of Old Prob. What is that? Old Prob. is + the new deity of the Americans, greater than AEolus, more despotic than + Sans-Culotte. The wind is his servitor, the lightning his messenger. He is + a mystery made of six parts electricity, and one part “guess.” This deity + is worshiped by the Americans; his name is on every man's lips first in + the morning; he is the Frankenstein of modern science. Housed at + Washington, his business is to direct the storms of the whole country upon + New England, and to give notice in advance. This he does. Sometimes he + sends the storm, and then gives notice. This is mere playfulness on his + part: it is all one to him. His great power is in the low pressure. + </p> + <p> + On the Bexar plains of Texas, among the hills of the Presidio, along the + Rio Grande, low pressure is bred; it is nursed also in the Atchafalaya + swamps of Louisiana; it moves by the way of Thibodeaux and Bonnet Carre. + The southwest is a magazine of atmospheric disasters. Low pressure may be + no worse than the others: it is better known, and is most used to inspire + terror. It can be summoned any time also from the everglades of Florida, + from the morasses of the Okeechobee. + </p> + <p> + When the New-Englander sees this in his news paper, he knows what it + means. He has twenty-four hours' warning; but what can he do? Nothing but + watch its certain advance by telegraph. He suffers in anticipation. That + is what Old Prob. has brought about, suffering by anticipation. This low + pressure advances against the wind. The wind is from the northeast. + Nothing could be more unpleasant than a northeast wind? Wait till low + pressure joins it. Together they make spring in New England. A northeast + storm from the southwest!—there is no bitterer satire than this. It + lasts three days. After that the weather changes into something + winter-like. + </p> + <p> + A solitary song-sparrow, without a note of joy, hops along the snow to the + dining-room window, and, turning his little head aside, looks up. He is + hungry and cold. Little Minnette, clasping her hands behind her back, + stands and looks at him, and says, “Po' birdie!” They appear to understand + each other. The sparrow gets his crumb; but he knows too much to let + Minnette get hold of him. Neither of these little things could take care + of itself in a New-England spring not in the depths of it. This is what + the 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The gardener is in despair; so is the sportsman. The trout take no + pleasure in biting in such weather. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And with reason: he trusts his eyes, and not his instinct. During this + most sour weather of the year, the anemone blossoms; and, almost + immediately after, the fairy pencil, the spring beauty, the dog-tooth + violet, and the true violet. In clouds and fog, and rain and snow, and all + discouragement, Nature pushes on her forces with progressive haste and + rapidity. Before one is aware, all the lawns and meadows are deeply green, + the trees are opening their tender leaves. In a burst of sunshine the + cherry-trees are white, the Judas-tree is pink, the hawthorns give a sweet + smell. The air is full of sweetness; the world, of color. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of a chilling northeast storm the ground is strewed with the + white-and-pink blossoms from the apple-trees. The next day the mercury + stands at eighty degrees. Summer has come. + </p> + <p> + There was no Spring. + </p> + <p> + The winter is over. You think so? Robespierre thought the Revolution was + over in the beginning of his last Thermidor. He lost his head after that. + </p> + <p> + When the first buds are set, and the corn is up, and the cucumbers have + four leaves, a malicious frost steals down from the north and kills them + in a night. + </p> + <p> + That is the last effort of spring. The mercury then mounts to ninety + degrees. The season has been long, but, on the whole, successful. Many + people survive it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of How Spring Came in New England +by Charles Dudley Warner + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND *** + +***** This file should be named 3131-h.htm or 3131-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/3/3131/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.12.12.00*END* + + + + + +This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + + + +How Spring Came in New England + +By Charles Dudley Warner + + + + +NOTE: This work has been previously published in [Etext #2673] +The Complete Writings of Charles Dudley Warner Volume 3 +Project Gutenberg The Complete Writings of Charles Dudley Warner +3warn10.txt or 3warn10.zip + + + + +'74 +HOW SPRING CAME IN NEW ENGLAND + +BY A READER OF "'93" + +New England is the battle-ground of the seasons. It is La Vendee. +To conquer it is only to begin the fight. When it is completely +subdued, what kind of weather have you? None whatever. + +What is this New England? A country? No: a camp. It is alternately +invaded by the hyperborean legions and by the wilting sirens of the +tropics. Icicles hang always on its northern heights; its seacoasts +are fringed with mosquitoes. There is for a third of the year a +contest between the icy air of the pole and the warm wind of the +gulf. The result of this is a compromise: the compromise is called +Thaw. It is the normal condition in New England. The New-Englander +is a person who is always just about to be warm and comfortable. +This is the stuff of which heroes and martyrs are made. A person +thoroughly heated or frozen is good for nothing. Look at the Bongos. +Examine (on the map) the Dog-Rib nation. The New-Englander, by +incessant activity, hopes to get warm. Edwards made his theology. +Thank God, New England is not in Paris! + +Hudson's Bay, Labrador, Grinnell's Land, a whole zone of ice and +walruses, make it unpleasant for New England. This icy cover, like +the lid of a pot, is always suspended over it: when it shuts down, +that is winter. This would be intolerable, were it not for the Gulf +Stream. The Gulf Stream is a benign, liquid force, flowing from +under the ribs of the equator,--a white knight of the South going up +to battle the giant of the North. The two meet in New England, and +have it out there. + +This is the theory; but, in fact, the Gulf Stream is mostly a +delusion as to New England. For Ireland it is quite another thing. +Potatoes ripen in Ireland before they are planted in New England. +That is the reason the Irish emigrate--they desire two crops the same +year. The Gulf Stream gets shunted off from New England by the +formation of the coast below: besides, it is too shallow to be of any +service. Icebergs float down against its surface-current, and fill +all the New-England air with the chill of death till June: after that +the fogs drift down from Newfoundland. There never was such a +mockery as this Gulf Stream. It is like the English influence on +France, on Europe. Pitt was an iceberg. + +Still New England survives. To what purpose? I say, as an example: +the politician says, to produce "Poor Boys." Bah! The poor boy is +an anachronism in civilization. He is no longer poor, and he is not +a boy. In Tartary they would hang him for sucking all the asses' +milk that belongs to the children: in New England he has all the +cream from the Public Cow. What can you expect in a country where +one knows not today what the weather will be tomorrow? Climate makes +the man. Suppose he, too, dwells on the Channel Islands, where he +has all climates, and is superior to all. Perhaps he will become the +prophet, the seer, of his age, as he is its Poet. The New-Englander +is the man without a climate. Why is his country recognized? You +won't find it on any map of Paris. + +And yet Paris is the universe. Strange anomaly! The greater must +include the less; but how if the less leaks out? This sometimes +happens. + +And yet there are phenomena in that country worth observing. One of +them is the conduct of Nature from the 1st of March to the 1st of +June, or, as some say, from the vernal equinox to the summer +solstice. As Tourmalain remarked, "You'd better observe the +unpleasant than to be blind." This was in 802. Tourmalain is dead; +so is Gross Alain; so is little Pee-Wee: we shall all be dead before +things get any better. + +That is the law. Without revolution there is nothing. What is +revolution? It is turning society over, and putting the best +underground for a fertilizer. Thus only will things grow. What has +this to do with New England? In the language of that flash of social +lightning, Beranger, "May the Devil fly away with me if I can see!" + +Let us speak of the period in the year in New England when winter +appears to hesitate. Except in the calendar, the action is ironical; +but it is still deceptive. The sun mounts high: it is above the +horizon twelve hours at a time. The snow gradually sneaks away in +liquid repentance. One morning it is gone, except in shaded spots +and close by the fences. From about the trunks of the trees it has +long departed: the tree is a living thing, and its growth repels it. +The fence is dead, driven into the earth in a rigid line by man: the +fence, in short, is dogma: icy prejudice lingers near it. +The snow has disappeared; but the landscape is a ghastly sight,-- +bleached, dead. The trees are stakes; the grass is of no color; and +the bare soil is not brown with a healthful brown; life has gone out +of it. Take up a piece of turf: it is a clod, without warmth, +inanimate. Pull it in pieces: there is no hope in it: it is a part +of the past; it is the refuse of last year. This is the condition to +which winter has reduced the landscape. When the snow, which was a +pall, is removed, you see how ghastly it is. The face of the country +is sodden. It needs now only the south wind to sweep over it, full +of the damp breath of death; and that begins to blow. No prospect +would be more dreary. + +And yet the south wind fills credulous man with joy. He opens the +window. He goes out, and catches cold. He is stirred by the +mysterious coming of something. If there is sign of change nowhere +else, we detect it in the newspaper. In sheltered corners of that +truculent instrument for the diffusion of the prejudices of the few +among the many begin to grow the violets of tender sentiment, the +early greens of yearning. The poet feels the sap of the new year +before the marsh-willow. He blossoms in advance of the catkins. Man +is greater than Nature. The poet is greater than man: he is nature +on two legs,--ambulatory. + +At first there is no appearance of conflict. The winter garrison +seems to have withdrawn. The invading hosts of the South are +entering without opposition. The hard ground softens; the sun lies +warm upon the southern bank, and water oozes from its base. If you +examine the buds of the lilac and the flowering shrubs, you cannot +say that they are swelling; but the varnish with which they were +coated in the fall to keep out the frost seems to be cracking. If +the sugar-maple is hacked, it will bleed,--the pure white blood of +Nature. + +At the close of a sunny day the western sky has a softened aspect: +its color, we say, has warmth in it On such a day you may meet a +caterpillar on the footpath, and turn out for him. The house-fly +thaws out; a company of cheerful wasps take possession of a chamber- +window. It is oppressive indoors at night, and the window is raised. +A flock of millers, born out of time, flutter in. It is most unusual +weather for the season: it is so every year. The delusion is +complete, when, on a mild evening, the tree-toads open their brittle- +brattle chorus on the edge of the pond. The citizen asks his +neighbor, "Did you hear the frogs last night?" That seems to open +the new world. One thinks of his childhood and its innocence, and of +his first loves. It fills one with sentiment and a tender longing, +this voice of the tree-toad. Man is a strange being. Deaf to the +prayers of friends, to the sermons and warnings of the church, to the +calls of duty, to the pleadings of his better nature, he is touched +by the tree-toad. The signs of the spring multiply. The passer in +the street in the evening sees the maid-servant leaning on the area- +gate in sweet converse with some one leaning on the other side; or in +the park, which is still too damp for anything but true affection, he +sees her seated by the side of one who is able to protect her from +the policeman, and hears her sigh, "How sweet it is to be with those +we love to be with!" + +All this is very well; but next morning the newspaper nips these +early buds of sentiment. The telegraph announces, "Twenty feet of +snow at Ogden, on the Pacific Road; winds blowing a gale at Omaha, +and snow still falling; mercury frozen at Duluth; storm-signals at +Port Huron." + +Where now are your tree-toads, your young love, your early season? +Before noon it rains, by three o'clock it hails; before night the +bleak storm-cloud of the northwest envelops the sky; a gale is +raging, whirling about a tempest of snow. By morning the snow is +drifted in banks, and two feet deep on a level. Early in the +seventeenth century, Drebbel of Holland invented the weather-glass. +Before that, men had suffered without knowing the degree of their +suffering. A century later, Romer hit upon the idea of using mercury +in a thermometer; and Fahrenheit constructed the instrument which +adds a new because distinct terror to the weather. Science names and +registers the ills of life; and yet it is a gain to know the names +and habits of our enemies. It is with some satisfaction in our +knowledge that we say the thermometer marks zero. + +In fact, the wild beast called Winter, untamed, has returned, and +taken possession of New England. Nature, giving up her melting mood, +has retired into dumbness and white stagnation. But we are wise. We +say it is better to have it now than later. We have a conceit of +understanding things. + +The sun is in alliance with the earth. Between the two the snow is +uncomfortable. Compelled to go, it decides to go suddenly. The +first day there is slush with rain; the second day, mud with hail; +the third day a flood with sunshine. The thermometer declares that +the temperature is delightful. Man shivers and sneezes. His +neighbor dies of some disease newly named by science; but he dies all +the same as if it hadn't been newly named. Science has not +discovered any name that is not fatal. + +This is called the breaking-up of winter. + +Nature seems for some days to be in doubt, not exactly able to stand +still, not daring to put forth anything tender. Man says that the +worst is over. If he should live a thousand years, he would be +deceived every year. And this is called an age of skepticism. Man +never believed in so many things as now: he never believed so much in +himself. As to Nature, he knows her secrets: he can predict what she +will do. He communicates with the next world by means of an alphabet +which he has invented. He talks with souls at the other end of the +spirit-wire. To be sure, neither of them says anything; but they +talk. Is not that something? He suspends the law of gravitation as +to his own body--he has learned how to evade it--as tyrants suspend +the legal writs of habeas corpus. When Gravitation asks for his +body, she cannot have it. He says of himself, "I am infallible; I am +sublime." He believes all these things. He is master of the +elements. Shakespeare sends him a poem just made, and as good a poem +as the man could write himself. 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. They follow each other in +contracting circles, in whirlwinds, in maelstroms of the atmosphere: +they meet and cross each other, all at a moment. This New England is +set apart: it is the exercise-ground of the weather. Storms bred +elsewhere come here full-grown: they come in couples, in quartets, in +choruses. If New England were not mostly rock, these winds would +carry it off; but they would bring it all back again, as happens with +the sandy portions. What sharp Eurus carries to Jersey, Africus +brings back. When the air is not full of snow, it is full of dust. +This is called one of the compensations of Nature. + +This is what happened after the convention of the blackbirds: A +moaning south wind brought rain; a southwest wind turned the rain to +snow; what is called a zephyr, out of the west, drifted the snow; a +north wind sent the mercury far below freezing. Salt added to snow +increases the evaporation and the cold. This was the office of the +northeast wind: it made the snow damp, and increased its bulk; but +then it rained a little, and froze, thawing at the same time. The +air was full of fog and snow and rain. And then the wind changed, +went back round the circle, reversing everything, like dragging a cat +by its tail. The mercury approached zero. This was nothing +uncommon. We know all these winds. We are familiar with the +different "forms of water." + +All this was only the prologue, the overture. If one might be +permitted to speak scientifically, it was only the tuning of the +instruments. The opera was to come,--the Flying Dutchman of the air. + +There is a wind called Euroclydon: it would be one of the Eumenides; +only they are women. It is half-brother to the gigantic storm-wind +of the equinox. The Euroclydon is not a wind: it is a monster. Its +breath is frost. It has snow in its hair. It is something terrible. +It peddles rheumatism, and plants consumption. + +The Euroclydon knew just the moment to strike into the discord of the +weather in New England. From its lair about Point Desolation, from +the glaciers of the Greenland continent, sweeping round the coast, +leaving wrecks in its track, it marched right athwart the other +conflicting winds, churning them into a fury, and inaugurating chaos. +It was the Marat of the elements. It was the revolution marching +into the " dreaded wood of La Sandraie." + +Let us sum it all up in one word: it was something for which there is +no name. + +Its track was destruction. On the sea it leaves wrecks. What does +it leave on land? Funerals. When it subsides, New England is +prostrate. It has left its legacy: this legacy is coughs and patent +medicines. This is an epic; this is destiny. You think Providence +is expelled out of New England? Listen! + +Two days after Euroclydon, I found in the woods the hepatica-- +earliest of wildwood flowers, evidently not intimidated by the wild +work of the armies trampling over New England--daring to hold up its +tender blossom. One could not but admire the quiet pertinacity of +Nature. She had been painting the grass under the snow. In spots it +was vivid green. There was a mild rain,--mild, but chilly. The +clouds gathered, and broke away in light, fleecy masses. There was a +softness on the hills. The birds suddenly were on every tree, +glancing through the air, filling it with song, sometimes shaking +raindrops from their wings. The cat brings in one in his mouth. He +thinks the season has begun, and the game-laws are off. He is fond +of Nature, this cat, as we all are: he wants to possess it. At four +o'clock in the morning there is a grand dress-rehearsal of the birds. +Not all the pieces of the orchestra have arrived; but there are +enough. The grass-sparrow has come. This is certainly charming. +The gardener comes to talk about seeds: he uncovers the straw-berries +and the grape-vines, salts the asparagus-bed, and plants the peas. +You ask if he planted them with a shot-gun. In the shade there is +still frost in the ground. Nature, in fact, still hesitates; puts +forth one hepatica at a time, and waits to see the result; pushes up +the grass slowly, perhaps draws it in at night. + +This indecision we call Spring. + +It becomes painful. It is like being on the rack for ninety days, +expecting every day a reprieve. Men grow hardened to it, however. + +This is the order with man,--hope, surprise, bewilderment, disgust, +facetiousness. The people in New England finally become facetious +about spring. This is the last stage: it is the most dangerous. +When a man has come to make a jest of misfortune, he is lost. "It +bores me to die," said the journalist Carra to the headsman at the +foot of the guillotine: "I would like to have seen the continuation." +One is also interested to see how spring is going to turn out. + +A day of sun, of delusive bird-singing, sight of the mellow earth,-- +all these begin to beget confidence. The night, even, has been warm. +But what is this in the morning journal, at breakfast?--"An area of +low pressure is moving from the Tortugas north." You shudder. + +What is this Low Pressure itself,--it? It is something frightful, +low, crouching, creeping, advancing; it is a foreboding; it is +misfortune by telegraph; it is the "'93" of the atmosphere. + +This low pressure is a creation of Old Prob. What is that? Old +Prob. is the new deity of the Americans, greater than AEolus, more +despotic than Sans-Culotte. The wind is his servitor, the lightning +his messenger. He is a mystery made of six parts electricity, and +one part "guess." This deity is worshiped by the Americans; his name +is on every man's lips first in the morning; he is the Frankenstein +of modern science. Housed at Washington, his business is to direct +the storms of the whole country upon New England, and to give notice +in advance. This he does. Sometimes he sends the storm, and then +gives notice. This is mere playfulness on his part: it is all one to +him. His great power is in the low pressure. + +On the Bexar plains of Texas, among the hills of the Presidio, along +the Rio Grande, low pressure is bred; it is nursed also in the +Atchafalaya swamps of Louisiana; it moves by the way of Thibodeaux +and Bonnet Carre. The southwest is a magazine of atmospheric +disasters. Low pressure may be no worse than the others: it is +better known, and is most used to inspire terror. It can be summoned +any time also from the everglades of Florida, from the morasses of +the Okeechobee. + +When the New-Englander sees this in his news paper, he knows what it +means. He has twenty-four hours' warning; but what can he do? +Nothing but watch its certain advance by telegraph. He suffers in +anticipation. That is what Old Prob. has brought about, suffering by +anticipation. This low pressure advances against the wind. The wind +is from the northeast. Nothing could be more unpleasant than a +northeast wind? Wait till low pressure joins it. Together they make +spring in New England. A northeast storm from the southwest!--there +is no bitterer satire than this. It lasts three days. After that +the weather changes into something winter-like. + +A solitary song-sparrow, without a note of joy, hops along the snow +to the dining-room window, and, turning his little head aside, looks +up. He is hungry and cold. Little Minnette, clasping her hands +behind her back, stands and looks at him, and says, "Po' birdie!" +They appear to understand each other. The sparrow gets his crumb; +but he knows too much to let Minnette get hold of him. Neither of +these little things could take care of itself in a New-England spring +not in the depths of it. This is what the 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 his eyes, and not his instinct. During +this most sour weather of the year, the anemone blossoms; and, almost +immediately after, the fairy pencil, the spring beauty, the dog-tooth +violet, and the true violet. In clouds and fog, and rain and snow, +and all discouragement, Nature pushes on her forces with progressive +haste and rapidity. Before one is aware, all the lawns and meadows +are deeply green, the trees are opening their tender leaves. In a +burst of sunshine the cherry-trees are white, the Judas-tree is pink, +the hawthorns give a sweet smell. The air is full of sweetness; the +world, of color. + +In the midst of a chilling northeast storm the ground is strewed with +the white-and-pink blossoms from the apple-trees. The next day the +mercury stands at eighty degrees. Summer has come. + +There was no Spring. + +The winter is over. You think so? Robespierre thought the +Revolution was over in the beginning of his last Thermidor. He lost +his head after that. + +When the first buds are set, and the corn is up, and the cucumbers +have four leaves, a malicious frost steals down from the north and +kills them in a night. + +That is the last effort of spring. The mercury then mounts to ninety +degrees. The season has been long, but, on the whole, successful. +Many people survive it. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's How Spring Came in New England, by Warner + diff --git a/old/cwsne10.zip b/old/cwsne10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c106d76 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/cwsne10.zip diff --git a/old/cwsne11.txt b/old/cwsne11.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ee299e4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/cwsne11.txt @@ -0,0 +1,888 @@ +The Project Gutenberg Etext of How Spring Came in New England by Warner +#35 in our series by Charles Dudley Warner + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!!!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. + +Please do not remove this. + +This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. +Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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It is alternately +invaded by the hyperborean legions and by the wilting sirens of the +tropics. Icicles hang always on its northern heights; its seacoasts +are fringed with mosquitoes. There is for a third of the year a +contest between the icy air of the pole and the warm wind of the +gulf. The result of this is a compromise: the compromise is called +Thaw. It is the normal condition in New England. The New-Englander +is a person who is always just about to be warm and comfortable. +This is the stuff of which heroes and martyrs are made. A person +thoroughly heated or frozen is good for nothing. Look at the Bongos. +Examine (on the map) the Dog-Rib nation. The New-Englander, by +incessant activity, hopes to get warm. Edwards made his theology. +Thank God, New England is not in Paris! + +Hudson's Bay, Labrador, Grinnell's Land, a whole zone of ice and +walruses, make it unpleasant for New England. This icy cover, like +the lid of a pot, is always suspended over it: when it shuts down, +that is winter. This would be intolerable, were it not for the Gulf +Stream. The Gulf Stream is a benign, liquid force, flowing from +under the ribs of the equator,--a white knight of the South going up +to battle the giant of the North. The two meet in New England, and +have it out there. + +This is the theory; but, in fact, the Gulf Stream is mostly a +delusion as to New England. For Ireland it is quite another thing. +Potatoes ripen in Ireland before they are planted in New England. +That is the reason the Irish emigrate--they desire two crops the same +year. The Gulf Stream gets shunted off from New England by the +formation of the coast below: besides, it is too shallow to be of any +service. Icebergs float down against its surface-current, and fill +all the New-England air with the chill of death till June: after that +the fogs drift down from Newfoundland. There never was such a +mockery as this Gulf Stream. It is like the English influence on +France, on Europe. Pitt was an iceberg. + +Still New England survives. To what purpose? I say, as an example: +the politician says, to produce "Poor Boys." Bah! The poor boy is +an anachronism in civilization. He is no longer poor, and he is not +a boy. In Tartary they would hang him for sucking all the asses' +milk that belongs to the children: in New England he has all the +cream from the Public Cow. What can you expect in a country where +one knows not today what the weather will be tomorrow? Climate makes +the man. Suppose he, too, dwells on the Channel Islands, where he +has all climates, and is superior to all. Perhaps he will become the +prophet, the seer, of his age, as he is its Poet. The New-Englander +is the man without a climate. Why is his country recognized? You +won't find it on any map of Paris. + +And yet Paris is the universe. Strange anomaly! The greater must +include the less; but how if the less leaks out? This sometimes +happens. + +And yet there are phenomena in that country worth observing. One of +them is the conduct of Nature from the 1st of March to the 1st of +June, or, as some say, from the vernal equinox to the summer +solstice. As Tourmalain remarked, "You'd better observe the +unpleasant than to be blind." This was in 802. Tourmalain is dead; +so is Gross Alain; so is little Pee-Wee: we shall all be dead before +things get any better. + +That is the law. Without revolution there is nothing. What is +revolution? It is turning society over, and putting the best +underground for a fertilizer. Thus only will things grow. What has +this to do with New England? In the language of that flash of social +lightning, Beranger, "May the Devil fly away with me if I can see!" + +Let us speak of the period in the year in New England when winter +appears to hesitate. Except in the calendar, the action is ironical; +but it is still deceptive. The sun mounts high: it is above the +horizon twelve hours at a time. The snow gradually sneaks away in +liquid repentance. One morning it is gone, except in shaded spots +and close by the fences. From about the trunks of the trees it has +long departed: the tree is a living thing, and its growth repels it. +The fence is dead, driven into the earth in a rigid line by man: the +fence, in short, is dogma: icy prejudice lingers near it. +The snow has disappeared; but the landscape is a ghastly sight,-- +bleached, dead. The trees are stakes; the grass is of no color; and +the bare soil is not brown with a healthful brown; life has gone out +of it. Take up a piece of turf: it is a clod, without warmth, +inanimate. Pull it in pieces: there is no hope in it: it is a part +of the past; it is the refuse of last year. This is the condition to +which winter has reduced the landscape. When the snow, which was a +pall, is removed, you see how ghastly it is. The face of the country +is sodden. It needs now only the south wind to sweep over it, full +of the damp breath of death; and that begins to blow. No prospect +would be more dreary. + +And yet the south wind fills credulous man with joy. He opens the +window. He goes out, and catches cold. He is stirred by the +mysterious coming of something. If there is sign of change nowhere +else, we detect it in the newspaper. In sheltered corners of that +truculent instrument for the diffusion of the prejudices of the few +among the many begin to grow the violets of tender sentiment, the +early greens of yearning. The poet feels the sap of the new year +before the marsh-willow. He blossoms in advance of the catkins. Man +is greater than Nature. The poet is greater than man: he is nature +on two legs,--ambulatory. + +At first there is no appearance of conflict. The winter garrison +seems to have withdrawn. The invading hosts of the South are +entering without opposition. The hard ground softens; the sun lies +warm upon the southern bank, and water oozes from its base. If you +examine the buds of the lilac and the flowering shrubs, you cannot +say that they are swelling; but the varnish with which they were +coated in the fall to keep out the frost seems to be cracking. If +the sugar-maple is hacked, it will bleed,--the pure white blood of +Nature. + +At the close of a sunny day the western sky has a softened aspect: +its color, we say, has warmth in it On such a day you may meet a +caterpillar on the footpath, and turn out for him. The house-fly +thaws out; a company of cheerful wasps take possession of a chamber- +window. It is oppressive indoors at night, and the window is raised. +A flock of millers, born out of time, flutter in. It is most unusual +weather for the season: it is so every year. The delusion is +complete, when, on a mild evening, the tree-toads open their brittle- +brattle chorus on the edge of the pond. The citizen asks his +neighbor, "Did you hear the frogs last night?" That seems to open +the new world. One thinks of his childhood and its innocence, and of +his first loves. It fills one with sentiment and a tender longing, +this voice of the tree-toad. Man is a strange being. Deaf to the +prayers of friends, to the sermons and warnings of the church, to the +calls of duty, to the pleadings of his better nature, he is touched +by the tree-toad. The signs of the spring multiply. The passer in +the street in the evening sees the maid-servant leaning on the area- +gate in sweet converse with some one leaning on the other side; or in +the park, which is still too damp for anything but true affection, he +sees her seated by the side of one who is able to protect her from +the policeman, and hears her sigh, "How sweet it is to be with those +we love to be with!" + +All this is very well; but next morning the newspaper nips these +early buds of sentiment. The telegraph announces, "Twenty feet of +snow at Ogden, on the Pacific Road; winds blowing a gale at Omaha, +and snow still falling; mercury frozen at Duluth; storm-signals at +Port Huron." + +Where now are your tree-toads, your young love, your early season? +Before noon it rains, by three o'clock it hails; before night the +bleak storm-cloud of the northwest envelops the sky; a gale is +raging, whirling about a tempest of snow. By morning the snow is +drifted in banks, and two feet deep on a level. Early in the +seventeenth century, Drebbel of Holland invented the weather-glass. +Before that, men had suffered without knowing the degree of their +suffering. A century later, Romer hit upon the idea of using mercury +in a thermometer; and Fahrenheit constructed the instrument which +adds a new because distinct terror to the weather. Science names and +registers the ills of life; and yet it is a gain to know the names +and habits of our enemies. It is with some satisfaction in our +knowledge that we say the thermometer marks zero. + +In fact, the wild beast called Winter, untamed, has returned, and +taken possession of New England. Nature, giving up her melting mood, +has retired into dumbness and white stagnation. But we are wise. We +say it is better to have it now than later. We have a conceit of +understanding things. + +The sun is in alliance with the earth. Between the two the snow is +uncomfortable. Compelled to go, it decides to go suddenly. The +first day there is slush with rain; the second day, mud with hail; +the third day a flood with sunshine. The thermometer declares that +the temperature is delightful. Man shivers and sneezes. His +neighbor dies of some disease newly named by science; but he dies all +the same as if it hadn't been newly named. Science has not +discovered any name that is not fatal. + +This is called the breaking-up of winter. + +Nature seems for some days to be in doubt, not exactly able to stand +still, not daring to put forth anything tender. Man says that the +worst is over. If he should live a thousand years, he would be +deceived every year. And this is called an age of skepticism. Man +never believed in so many things as now: he never believed so much in +himself. As to Nature, he knows her secrets: he can predict what she +will do. He communicates with the next world by means of an alphabet +which he has invented. He talks with souls at the other end of the +spirit-wire. To be sure, neither of them says anything; but they +talk. Is not that something? He suspends the law of gravitation as +to his own body--he has learned how to evade it--as tyrants suspend +the legal writs of habeas corpus. When Gravitation asks for his +body, she cannot have it. He says of himself, "I am infallible; I am +sublime." He believes all these things. He is master of the +elements. Shakespeare sends him a poem just made, and as good a poem +as the man could write himself. 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. They follow each other in +contracting circles, in whirlwinds, in maelstroms of the atmosphere: +they meet and cross each other, all at a moment. This New England is +set apart: it is the exercise-ground of the weather. Storms bred +elsewhere come here full-grown: they come in couples, in quartets, in +choruses. If New England were not mostly rock, these winds would +carry it off; but they would bring it all back again, as happens with +the sandy portions. What sharp Eurus carries to Jersey, Africus +brings back. When the air is not full of snow, it is full of dust. +This is called one of the compensations of Nature. + +This is what happened after the convention of the blackbirds: A +moaning south wind brought rain; a southwest wind turned the rain to +snow; what is called a zephyr, out of the west, drifted the snow; a +north wind sent the mercury far below freezing. Salt added to snow +increases the evaporation and the cold. This was the office of the +northeast wind: it made the snow damp, and increased its bulk; but +then it rained a little, and froze, thawing at the same time. The +air was full of fog and snow and rain. And then the wind changed, +went back round the circle, reversing everything, like dragging a cat +by its tail. The mercury approached zero. This was nothing +uncommon. We know all these winds. We are familiar with the +different "forms of water." + +All this was only the prologue, the overture. If one might be +permitted to speak scientifically, it was only the tuning of the +instruments. The opera was to come,--the Flying Dutchman of the air. + +There is a wind called Euroclydon: it would be one of the Eumenides; +only they are women. It is half-brother to the gigantic storm-wind +of the equinox. The Euroclydon is not a wind: it is a monster. Its +breath is frost. It has snow in its hair. It is something terrible. +It peddles rheumatism, and plants consumption. + +The Euroclydon knew just the moment to strike into the discord of the +weather in New England. From its lair about Point Desolation, from +the glaciers of the Greenland continent, sweeping round the coast, +leaving wrecks in its track, it marched right athwart the other +conflicting winds, churning them into a fury, and inaugurating chaos. +It was the Marat of the elements. It was the revolution marching +into the "dreaded wood of La Sandraie." + +Let us sum it all up in one word: it was something for which there is +no name. + +Its track was destruction. On the sea it leaves wrecks. What does +it leave on land? Funerals. When it subsides, New England is +prostrate. It has left its legacy: this legacy is coughs and patent +medicines. This is an epic; this is destiny. You think Providence +is expelled out of New England? Listen! + +Two days after Euroclydon, I found in the woods the hepatica-- +earliest of wildwood flowers, evidently not intimidated by the wild +work of the armies trampling over New England--daring to hold up its +tender blossom. One could not but admire the quiet pertinacity of +Nature. She had been painting the grass under the snow. In spots it +was vivid green. There was a mild rain,--mild, but chilly. The +clouds gathered, and broke away in light, fleecy masses. There was a +softness on the hills. The birds suddenly were on every tree, +glancing through the air, filling it with song, sometimes shaking +raindrops from their wings. The cat brings in one in his mouth. He +thinks the season has begun, and the game-laws are off. He is fond +of Nature, this cat, as we all are: he wants to possess it. At four +o'clock in the morning there is a grand dress-rehearsal of the birds. +Not all the pieces of the orchestra have arrived; but there are +enough. The grass-sparrow has come. This is certainly charming. +The gardener comes to talk about seeds: he uncovers the straw-berries +and the grape-vines, salts the asparagus-bed, and plants the peas. +You ask if he planted them with a shot-gun. In the shade there is +still frost in the ground. Nature, in fact, still hesitates; puts +forth one hepatica at a time, and waits to see the result; pushes up +the grass slowly, perhaps draws it in at night. + +This indecision we call Spring. + +It becomes painful. It is like being on the rack for ninety days, +expecting every day a reprieve. Men grow hardened to it, however. + +This is the order with man,--hope, surprise, bewilderment, disgust, +facetiousness. The people in New England finally become facetious +about spring. This is the last stage: it is the most dangerous. +When a man has come to make a jest of misfortune, he is lost. "It +bores me to die," said the journalist Carra to the headsman at the +foot of the guillotine: "I would like to have seen the continuation." +One is also interested to see how spring is going to turn out. + +A day of sun, of delusive bird-singing, sight of the mellow earth,-- +all these begin to beget confidence. The night, even, has been warm. +But what is this in the morning journal, at breakfast?--"An area of +low pressure is moving from the Tortugas north." You shudder. + +What is this Low Pressure itself,--it? It is something frightful, +low, crouching, creeping, advancing; it is a foreboding; it is +misfortune by telegraph; it is the "'93" of the atmosphere. + +This low pressure is a creation of Old Prob. What is that? Old +Prob. is the new deity of the Americans, greater than AEolus, more +despotic than Sans-Culotte. The wind is his servitor, the lightning +his messenger. He is a mystery made of six parts electricity, and +one part "guess." This deity is worshiped by the Americans; his name +is on every man's lips first in the morning; he is the Frankenstein +of modern science. Housed at Washington, his business is to direct +the storms of the whole country upon New England, and to give notice +in advance. This he does. Sometimes he sends the storm, and then +gives notice. This is mere playfulness on his part: it is all one to +him. His great power is in the low pressure. + +On the Bexar plains of Texas, among the hills of the Presidio, along +the Rio Grande, low pressure is bred; it is nursed also in the +Atchafalaya swamps of Louisiana; it moves by the way of Thibodeaux +and Bonnet Carre. The southwest is a magazine of atmospheric +disasters. Low pressure may be no worse than the others: it is +better known, and is most used to inspire terror. It can be summoned +any time also from the everglades of Florida, from the morasses of +the Okeechobee. + +When the New-Englander sees this in his news paper, he knows what it +means. He has twenty-four hours' warning; but what can he do? +Nothing but watch its certain advance by telegraph. He suffers in +anticipation. That is what Old Prob. has brought about, suffering by +anticipation. This low pressure advances against the wind. The wind +is from the northeast. Nothing could be more unpleasant than a +northeast wind? Wait till low pressure joins it. Together they make +spring in New England. A northeast storm from the southwest!--there +is no bitterer satire than this. It lasts three days. After that +the weather changes into something winter-like. + +A solitary song-sparrow, without a note of joy, hops along the snow +to the dining-room window, and, turning his little head aside, looks +up. He is hungry and cold. Little Minnette, clasping her hands +behind her back, stands and looks at him, and says, "Po' birdie!" +They appear to understand each other. The sparrow gets his crumb; +but he knows too much to let Minnette get hold of him. Neither of +these little things could take care of itself in a New-England spring +not in the depths of it. This is what the 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 his eyes, and not his instinct. During +this most sour weather of the year, the anemone blossoms; and, almost +immediately after, the fairy pencil, the spring beauty, the dog-tooth +violet, and the true violet. In clouds and fog, and rain and snow, +and all discouragement, Nature pushes on her forces with progressive +haste and rapidity. Before one is aware, all the lawns and meadows +are deeply green, the trees are opening their tender leaves. In a +burst of sunshine the cherry-trees are white, the Judas-tree is pink, +the hawthorns give a sweet smell. The air is full of sweetness; the +world, of color. + +In the midst of a chilling northeast storm the ground is strewed with +the white-and-pink blossoms from the apple-trees. The next day the +mercury stands at eighty degrees. Summer has come. + +There was no Spring. + +The winter is over. You think so? Robespierre thought the +Revolution was over in the beginning of his last Thermidor. He lost +his head after that. + +When the first buds are set, and the corn is up, and the cucumbers +have four leaves, a malicious frost steals down from the north and +kills them in a night. + +That is the last effort of spring. The mercury then mounts to ninety +degrees. The season has been long, but, on the whole, successful. +Many people survive it. + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of How Spring Came in New England +by Charles Dudley Warner + diff --git a/old/cwsne11.zip b/old/cwsne11.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a456fe6 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/cwsne11.zip |