112 A MARCH CHRONICLE. 



died away by mid-forenoon, and the day settled down 

 so softly and lovingly upon the earth, touching every- 

 thing, filling everything. The sky visibly came down. 

 You could see it among the trees and between the 

 hills. The sun poured himself into the earth as into 

 a cup, and the atmosphere fairly swam with warmth 

 and light. In the afternoon I walked out over the 

 country roads north of the city. Innumerable columns 

 of smoke were going up all around the horizon from 

 burning brush and weeds, fields being purified by fire. 

 The farmers were hauling out manure ; and I am free 

 to confess, the odor of it, with its associations of the 

 farm and the stable, of cattle and horses, was good in 

 my nostrils. In the woods the liverleaf and arbutus 

 had just opened doubtingly ; and in the little pools 

 great masses of frogs' spawn, with a milky tinge, were 

 deposited. The youth who accompanied me brought 

 some of it home in his handkerchief, to see it hatch 

 in a goblet. 



The month came in like a lamb, and went out like 

 a lamb, setting at naught the old adage. The white 

 fleecy clouds lay here and there, as if at rest, on the 

 blue sky. The fields were a perfect emerald ; and 

 the lawns, with the new gold of the first dandelions 

 sprinkled about, were lush with grass. In the parks 

 and groves there was a faint mist of foliage, except 

 among the willows, where there was not only a mist, 

 but a perfect fountain-fall of green. In the distance 

 the river looked blue ; the spring freshets at last 

 over ; and the ground settled, and the jocund season 

 sets forth into April with a bright and confident look. 



