AFTER THE SNOW. 



THERE is a continuous song in the valley to-day. 

 The warm breath of Spring is borne on the south 

 wind and the snow fades fast on the hillside. 

 Everything is moving. The very road seems to be on the 

 run, glistening in the sunlight, and a bird perching on the 

 alder bushes jars the pollen from the catkins. It is pleas- 

 ant to hear the constant warble ; to get a cedar branch 

 and lie down on it in the warm sunshine and have the 

 little yellow flies come and make their toilet on the twigs. 

 They rub their heads with their forelegs, until the slender 

 necks seem nigh unto breaking. They look so comically 

 wise, so matter-of-fact, so business-like, one is almost 

 inclined to address them. How much does a cold, stormy 

 day or a sunny one signify to them ? It is their life or 

 death, it is their chance. The sun hidden for even an hour 

 behind a cloud has a greater potency in nature than we 

 commonly credit. The rise and fall of our health and 

 vigor our spirits go up and down like the mercury in a 

 thermometer, and passing clouds, sunshine and cold, have 

 much to do with it. So, with the flies, we must have 

 courage, be satisfied with the hour. They rub their heads 

 and scrape their feet in comfort, and nothing that we can 

 do will bring us any greater advantage than this. 



