162 RIVERBY 



ducks cross a large field of ice, the lower line is 

 suddenly blotted out, as if the birds had dived be- 

 neath the ice. A train of cars across the river, 

 the train sunk beneath a solid stratum of fog, its 

 plume of smoke and vapor unrolling above it and 

 slanting away in the distance; a liquid morning; 

 the turf buzzes as you walk over it. 



Skunk cabbage on Saturday the 22d, probably in 

 bloom several days. This plant always gets ahead 

 of me. It seems to come up like a mushroom in a 

 single night. Water newts just out, and probably 

 piping before the frogs, though not certain about 

 this. 



March 25. One of the rare days that go before 

 a storm; the flower of a series of days increasingly 

 fair. To-morrow, probably, the flower falls, and 

 days of rain and cold prepare the way for another 

 fair day or days. The barometer must be high to- 

 day ; the birds fly high. I feed my bees on a rock, 

 and sit long and watch them covering the combs, 

 and rejoice in the multitudinous humming. The 

 river is a great mirror dotted here and there by small 

 cakes of ice. The first sloop comes lazily up on the 

 flood tide, like the first butterfly of spring; the 

 little steamer, our river omnibus, makes her first 

 trip, and wakes the echoes with her salutatory 

 whistle, her flags dancing in the sun. 



April 1. Welcome to April, my natal month; 

 the month of the swelling buds, the springing grass, 

 the first nests, the first plantings, the first flowers, 

 and, last but not least, the first shad! The door of 



