A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



swallow appears, before the whippoorwill is 

 heard, before the wood thrush sings ; but 

 it is April as long as there is snow upon the 

 mountains, no matter what the almanac 

 may say. Our April is, in fact, a kind of 

 Alpine summer, full of such contrasts and 

 touches of wild, delicate beauty as no other 

 season affords. The deluded citizen fancies 

 there is nothing enjoyable in the country 

 till June, and so misses the freshest, tender- 

 est part. It is as if one should miss straw- 

 berries and begin his fruit-eating with melons 

 and peaches. These last are good, — su- 

 premely so, they are melting and luscious, — 

 but nothing so thrills and penetrates the 

 taste, and wakes up and teases the papilla 

 of the tongue, as the uncloying strawberry. 

 What midsummer sweetness half so distract- 

 ing as its brisk sub-acid flavor, and what 

 splendor of full-leaved June can stir the 

 blood like the best of leafless April ? 



One characteristic April feature, and one 

 that delights me very much, is the perfect 

 emerald of the spring runs while the fields 

 are yet brown and sere, — strips and patches 

 of the most vivid velvet green on the slopes 

 and in the valleys. How the eye grazes 

 there, and is filled and refreshed ! I had 



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