A MARCH CHRONICLE. 



ON THE POTOMAC. 



MARCH 1. The first day of spring and the first 

 pring day ! I felt the change the moment I put my 

 head out of doors in the morning. A fitful, gusty 

 south wind was blowing, though the sky was clear. 

 But the sunlight was not the same. There was an 

 interfusion of a new element. Not ten days since 

 there had been a day just as bright, even brighter 

 and warmer, a clear, crystalline day of February, 

 with nothing vernal in it ; but this day was opaline ; 

 there was a film, a sentiment in it, a nearer approach 

 to life. Then there was that fresh, indescribable 

 odor, a breath from the Gulf, or from Flor$a and 

 the Carolinas, a subtle, persuasive influence that 

 thrilled the sense. Every root and rootlet under 

 ground must have felt it ; the buds of the soft maple 

 and silver poplar felt it ; and swelled perceptibly dur- 

 ing the day. The robins knew it, and were here that 

 morning ; so were the crow-blackbirds. The shad 

 must have known it, down deep in their marine re- 

 peats, and leaped and sported about the mouths of 



