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diff --git a/3131-h/3131-h.htm b/3131-h/3131-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5a841a7 --- /dev/null +++ b/3131-h/3131-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,966 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + How Spring Came in New England, by Charles Dudley Warner + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +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 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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