130 WAKE-ROBIN 



Nature, wild and unkempt, comes up to its very 

 threshold, and even in many places crosses it. 



The woods, which I soon reach, are stark and 

 still. The signs of returning life are so faint as to 

 be almost imperceptible, but there is a fresh, earthy 

 smell in the air, as if something had stirred here 

 under the leaves. The crows caw above the wood, 

 or walk about the brown fields. I look at the gray, 

 silent trees long and long, but they show no sign. 

 The catkins of some alders by a little pool have just 

 swelled perceptibly; and, brushing 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 bot- 

 tom. 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 won- 

 ders 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 transparent. 

 These hatch in eight or ten days, gradually absorb 

 their gelatinous surroundings, and the tiny tadpoles 

 issue forth. 



In the city, even before the shop-windows have 

 caught the inspiration, spring is heralded by the 



