motes ot tbe 



a ruby ! Through the night, the syrupy sap has 

 been oozing, and the frost has crystallized it. What 

 confectionery ! I have eaten frozen maple buds, 

 and they are sweet. 



The ravine, thick-set with rhododendrons and a 

 squatty hemlock growth, vainly resists the rising 

 sun's attack. I can see now a long alley of light 

 that leads to some dripping spring cave in the 

 colored clay, and for a brief moment its secrets are 

 laid bare. But the sun is no laggard. He travels 

 faster now than at noontide, and is up and ready 

 to peer down upon us before we realize his journey 

 has begun. Time flies, but the sun goes bounding 

 from a catapult, and this first act of the diurnal 

 drama is little more than a quick scene-shifting; 

 and few are the actors, and fewer still the words 

 they speak. There is matchless quality, though ; 

 and songs at sunrise, when birds are the artists, 

 linger longest in our minds. It is the magic 

 springtide light that quickens our every sense, and 

 for once at least brings us in full sympathy with 

 the fresh new world. 



The month passes, and all that we have confi- 

 dently predicted will be found to have been made 

 good. March accomplished more than merely 

 blowing out the old and in the new ; and in this 

 same light, now heavy with overcrowding of sights, 

 odors, and sounds, we have, in April, fulfilment. 

 The buds are now blossoms, white as the driven 

 snow, ruddy as the blushing rose, fragrant beyond 



