MARCH 



I go listening, but in vain, for the warble of the 

 bluebird from the old orchard across the river. I 

 love to look now at the fine-grained russet hillsides 

 in the sun, ready to relieve and contrast with the 

 azure of the bluebirds. . . . Heard two hawks 

 scream. There was something truly March-like 

 in it, like a prolonged blast or whistling of the 

 wind through a crevice in the sky, which, like a 

 cracked blue saucer, overlaps the woods. Such 

 are the first rude notes which prelude the summer's 

 choir, learned of the whistling March wind. 



THOEEAU: Early Spring in Massachusetts. 



The storm is over, and it is one of those beauti- 

 ful winter mornings when a vapor is seen hanging 

 in the air between the village and the woods. 



THOREAU: Winter. 



There are days when almost complete silence 

 possesses the woods, yet listening intently one may 

 hear the continual movement of -myriads of snow 

 fleas pattering on the fallen leaves like the soft 

 purr of such showers as one might imagine would 

 fall in Lilliput. 



ROBINSON: In New England Fields and Woods. 



