MARCH DAYS 



of squirrel cup with a downy heart of 

 buds full of the promise of spring. 



The woods are filled with a certain 

 subtle scent quite distinct from the very 

 apparent resinous and balsamic aroma of 

 the evergreens, that eludes description, 

 but as a kind of freshness that tickles the 

 nose with longing for a more generous 

 waft of it. You can trace it to no source, 

 as you can the odors of the pine and the 

 hemlocks or the sweet fragrance of the 

 boiling sap, coming from the sugar- 

 maker's camp with a pungent mixture of 

 wood-smoke. You are also made aware 

 that the skunk has been abroad, that 

 reynard is somewhere to windward, and 

 by an undescribed, generally unrecog- 

 nized, pungency in the air that a gray 

 squirrel lives in your neighborhood. Yet 

 among all these more potent odors you 

 still discover this subtle exhalation, per- 

 haps of the earth filtered upward through 

 the snow, perhaps the first awakening 

 breath of all the deciduous trees. 



Warmer shines the sun and warmer 

 blows the wind from southern seas and 

 southern lands. More and more the 



