perish. Spring was here. It has gone again. And 

 so it will come and go until the shad-bush blooms 

 for me. 



You will not miss one of the returning birds, not 

 even the wild geese ; not one of the early flowers, 

 either, by waiting for the shad-bush. The skunk- 

 cabbage and pussy-willow are still in blossom ; and 

 still in the woods and fields is the smell of the soil, 

 that fragrance, that essence which is the breath of 

 the wakening earth. You can yet taste it on the lips 

 of the hepatica, the arbutus, and bloodroot. It still 

 lingers on the early catkins, too, a strangely rare 

 and delicate odor, that is not of the flowers at all, 

 but of the earth, and sweeter than any perfume that 

 the summer can distill. 



It has been a slow, unwilling season until to-day, 

 so slow that the green still shows richest in the 

 sheltered meadows, and the lively color on the rocky 

 slope that runs up from my tiny river is largely the 

 color of mosses and Christmas ferns. Here is a 

 stretch of southern exposure, however, and here are 

 spots where springtime came weeks ago. Already 

 the dog-tooth violets are out in a sunny saucer be- 

 tween the rocks ; just above them, on an unshaded 



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