94 BIRDS AND POETS 
over the trees, the tinge of green that comes so sud- 
denly on the sunny knolls and slopes, the full trans- 
lucent streams, the waxing and warming sun, — how 
these things and others lke them are noted by the 
eager eye and ear! April is my natal month, and I 
am born again into new delight and new surprises 
at each return of it. Its name has an indescribable 
charm to me. Its two syllables are like the calls of 
the first birds,—like that of the phcebe-bird, or of 
the meadowlark. Its very snows are fertilizing, 
and are called the poor man’s manure. 
Then its odors! I am thrilled by its fresh and 
indescribable odors,— the perfume of the bursting 
sod, of the quickened roots and rootlets, of the 
mould under the leaves, of the fresh furrows. No 
other month has odors like it. The west wind the 
other day came fraught with a perfume that was to 
the sense of smell what a wild and delicate strain of 
music is to the ear. It was almost transcendental. 
I walked across the hill with my nose in the air 
taking it in. It lasted for two days. I imagined 
it came from the willows of a distant swamp, whose 
catkins were affording the bees their first pollen; 
or did it come from much farther, —from beyond 
the horizon, the accumulated breath of innumerable 
farms and budding forests? The main characteristic 
of these April odors is their uncloying freshness. 
They are not sweet, they are oftener bitter, they 
are penetrating and lyrical. JI know well the odors 
of May and June, of the world of meadows and 
orchards bursting into bloom, but they are not so 
