MARCH DAYS 



tawny earth comes in sight among pud- 

 dles of melted snow, which bring the mir- 

 rored sky and its fleecy flocks of clouds, 

 with treetops turned topsy-turvy, down 

 into the bounds of fields. The brooks 

 are alive again and babbling noisily over 

 their pebbled beds, and the lake, hearing 

 them, groans and cries for deliverance 

 from its prison of ice. 



On the marshes you may find the ice 

 shrunken from the shores and an inter- 

 vening strip of water where the muskrat 

 may see the sun and the stars again. 

 You hear the trumpets of the wild geese 

 and see the gray battalion riding north- 

 ward on the swift wind. 



The sun and the south wind, which 

 perhaps bears some faint breath of stolen 

 fragrance from far-off violet banks, tempt 

 forth the bees, but they find no flowers 

 yet, not even a squirrelcup or willow cat- 

 kin, and can only make the most of the 

 fresh sawdust by the wood-pile and the 

 sappy ends of maple logs. 



Down from the sky, whose livery he 

 wears and whose song he sings, comes 

 the heavenly carol of the bluebird ; the 



