Pastoral Days; or, Memories of a New England Year

I remember the torrent of rain and the freshet; the broken dams and bridges washed away. The softened ground yielded up its subterranean frosts; in all the trees the winter wounds bled with the quickened pulse; the elder spigots in the sugar-maples trickled all the day; and the neighboring farms echoed with the snap of whip and voice of eager teamsters, as the busy plough turned the dark-brown furrows, or the crushing harrow combed the crumbling mould. How welcome were the evidences of returning life among the low meadow-lands, where velvety-green tufts of sprouting grass circled the borders of the marshy pools, and the golden willow twigs bathed the brook-side in a luminous glow! Here, too, the alders hung their swinging tassels or trailed them o’er the surface of the swollen stream.

One by one the feathered flocks returned, and the little snow-birds and the buntings, seeing their place usurped, left for the northward region, to lend their cheerful voices to another winter. Then came a beautiful day, with mild, earth-scented breezes, like very spring. But at night the north wind came again to reassert its power, and the earth was once more subdued beneath the snow. And so for weeks the north wind battled with the sun,

Till at last the sweet ArbutusNestling close on Nature’s breastFelt a throb · a warm pulsationRouse it from its dreamy rest·Throwing wide its little portalsFrom its coverlet of snowIt peeped forth from the leafy shelterInto a valley white below·“Am I dreaming? · Shall the WinterStifle and freeze my early breathNay · hark! · I hear the Bluebird singing’Spring has come’ he answereth·“Ah! Frost-flower in thy grotto yonderCrystal sun-gem white and clearThy reign must cease when I awakenFarewell! pale bloom · thy fate draws near·Bleak Winter is thineLove’s Spring-time is mine·