272 Walks in New England 



A Prophesying Day 



THESE bright March days at the end of 

 January rather worry the progress of the 

 seasons, and when one sees the aments of 

 the alders crimsoning, and plucks the pussy wil 

 lows, and actually discovers the skunk cabbage 

 thrusting its close-wrapt hood two inches above 

 the moist and warmth of the swale, he feels much 

 as if he had encountered a boy with a straw hat. 

 It is a surprising winter. Notwithstanding our 

 occasional spells of zero weather, or near it, 

 southern exposures in this region where one can 

 not thrust a walking stick deep into the roadside 

 bank must be few. There is little frost in the 

 ground, and there is the peculiar spring feeling in 

 the atmosphere a reviving, aspirant impulse, 

 which makes one for the time forget. But, after 

 all, what if the temperature lowers and the 

 northwesters roar ? Has not the promise been 

 given and felt, and the prayer of gratitude been 

 uttered ? 



The moving of the sleepless, pauseless spirit of 



