The Bay of the Band 
perish. Spring was here. It has gone again. And 
so it will come and go until the shad-bush blooms — 
for me. 
You will not miss one of the returning birds, not 
even the wild geese; not one of the early flowers, 
either, by waiting for the shad-bush. The skunk- 
cabbage and pussy-willow are still in blossom; and 
still in the woods and fields is the smell of the soil, 
— that fragrance, that essence which is the breath of 
the wakening earth. You can yet taste it on the lips 
of the hepatica, the arbutus, and bloodroot. It still 
lingers on the early catkins, too, —a strangely rare 
and delicate odor, that is not of the flowers at all, 
but of the earth, and sweeter than any perfume that 
the summer can distill. 
It has been a slow, unwilling season until to-day, 
so slow that the green still shows richest in the 
sheltered meadows, and the lively color on the rocky 
slope that runs up from my tiny river is largely the 
color of mosses and Christmas ferns. Here is a 
stretch of southern exposure, however, and here are 
spots where springtime came weeks ago. Already 
the dog-tooth violets are out in a sunny saucer be- 
tween the rocks; just above them, on an unshaded 
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