DEAD WILLOW BEND. 127 



bewilders and disheartens them, and as if afraid to make 

 another effort, they tarry until almost summer weather. 



These pretty finches gave me confidence, and I hur- 

 ried to the willows. No, the leaf-buds were still brown, 

 but swollen ; and I found no green thing. 



But the past was in another month, and what of to- 

 day ? this breezy, frosty, threatening April 1st ? 



The east was but faintly streaked with rosy light as 

 I sought the meadows ; but the robins were before me, 

 and each in his post, from the mist-wrapped, leafless trees, 

 sung his morning hymn. Anon the clouds parted as the 

 sun slowly rose ; the fog, as a curtain, rolled upward and 

 away ; a flood of light spread over all the scene ; spring, 

 at last, with a sweet smile, came upon the stage the 

 willows were a-greening. 



Waste-land, as my neighbors call it, is always an eye- 

 sore to them, and many who have passed Dead Willow 

 Bend almost daily for years have failed to discover its 

 beauties. But no contemplative rambler would fail to 

 be held by them, at least on such a day as this, when 

 the waters chanced to be without a ripple, the sky with- 

 out a cloud. Not a leaf trembled on any twig; not a 

 bird broke the silence. Above and beneath a fathom- 

 less depth of unstained blue on either side, a wilder- 

 ness of green. 



Guiding, but not propelling my boat, I slowly and si- 

 lently moved forward, wondering that nothing should 

 appear. At last, from some distant meadow, a broad- 

 winged bird came flying towards me. Nearer and near- 

 er it came, and not alarmed by my presence, settled in 

 the tall grass not twenty yards away. It was a bittern. 



