130 WAKE-ROBIN 
Nature, wild and unkempt, comes up to its very 
threshold, and even in many places crosses it. 
The woods, which I soon reach, are stark and 
still. The signs of returning life are so faint as to 
be almost imperceptible, but there is a fresh, earthy 
smell in the air, as if something had stirred here 
under the leaves. The crows caw above the wood, 
or walk about the brown fields. I look at the gray, 
silent trees long and long, but they show no sign. 
The catkins of some alders by a little pool have just 
swelled perceptibly; and, brushing away the dry 
leaves and débris on a sunny slope, I discover the 
liverwort just pushing up a fuzzy, tender sprout. 
But the waters have brought forth. The little frogs 
are musical. From every marsh and pool goes up 
their shrill but pleasing chorus. Peering into one 
of their haunts, a little body of semi-stagnant water, 
I discover masses of frogs’ spawn covering the bot- 
tom. I take up great chunks of the cold, quiver- 
ing jelly in my hands. In some places there are 
gallons of it. A youth who accompanies me won- 
ders if it would not be good cooked, or if it could 
not be used as a substitute for eggs. It is a perfect 
jelly, of a slightly milky tinge, thickly imbedded 
with black spots about the size of a small bird’s 
eye. When just deposited it is perfectly transparent. 
These hatch in eight or ten days, gradually absorb 
their gelatinous surroundings, and the tiny tadpoles 
issue forth. 
In the city, even before the shop-windows have 
caught the inspiration, spring is heralded by the 
