104 BIRDS AND POETS 
The April of English literature corresponds nearly 
to our May. In Great Britain, the swallow and 
the cuckoo usually arrive by the middle of April; 
with us, their appearance is a week or two later. 
Our April, at its best, is a bright, laughing face 
under a hood of snow, like the English March, but 
presenting sharper contrasts, a greater mixture of 
smiles and tears and icy looks than are known to 
our ancestral climate. Indeed, Winter sometimes 
retraces his steps in this month, and unburdens 
himself of the snows that the previous cold has kept 
back; but we are always sure of a number of radi- 
ant, equable days,—days that go before the bud, 
when the sun embraces the earth with fervor and 
determination. How his beams pour into the woods 
till the mould under the leaves is warm and emits 
an odor! The waters glint and sparkle, the birds 
gather in groups, and even those unwont to sing 
find a voice. On the streets of the cities, what a 
flutter, what bright looks and gay colors! I recall 
one preéminent day of this kind last April. I made 
a note of it in my note-book. The earth seemed 
suddenly to emerge from a wilderness of clouds and 
chilliness into one of these blue sunlit spaces. How 
the voyagers rejoiced! Invalids came forth, old 
men sauntered down the street, stocks went up, and 
the political outlook brightened. 
Such days bring out the last of the hibernating 
animals. The woodchuck unrolls and creeps out of 
his den to see if his clover has started yet. The 
torpidity leaves the snakes and the turtles, and they 
