SPRING AT THE CAPITAL. 171 



trees long and long, but they show no sign. 

 The catkins of some alders by a little pool 

 have just swelled perceptibly; and brush- 

 ing away the dry leaves and debris on a 

 sunny slope, I discover the liverwort just 

 pushing up a fuzzy, tender sprout. But the 

 waters have brought forth. The little frogs 

 are musical. From every marsh and pool 

 goes up their shrill, but pleasing chorus. 

 Peering into one of their haunts, a little 

 body of semi - stagnant water, I discover 

 masses of frogs' spawn covering the bottom. 

 I take up great chunks of the cold, quiver- 

 ing jelly in my hands. In some places there 

 are gallons of it. A youth who accompanies 

 me wonders if it would not be good cooked, 

 or if it could not be used as a substitute for 

 eggs. It is a perfect jelly, of a slightly 

 milky tinge, thickly imbedded with black 

 spots about the size of a small bird's eye. 

 When just deposited, it is perfectly trans- 

 parent. These hatch in eight or ten days, 

 gradually absorb their gelatinous surround- 

 ings, and the tiny tadpoles issue forth. 



In the city, even before the shop-windows 

 have caught the inspiration, spring is her- 

 alded by the silver poplars, which line all 

 the streets and avenues. After a few mild, 



