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diff --git a/old/cwsne10.txt b/old/cwsne10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f54b5a3 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/cwsne10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,867 @@ +Project Gutenberg's 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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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 |