152 PASTORAL DAYS. 



and the mangers, and lay the foundation of their future brood ; the climb- 

 ing bitter-sweet lets fall its scarlet seeds, and the little pussies on the 

 willows grow day by day. How eagerly I always watched these welcome 

 signs ! for even though I loved the winter, I never sorrowed at its depart- 

 ure in the face of coming spring, with its promises of the medleys of the 

 birds, of unfolding buds, and those sweet shy faces soon to peep along 

 the wood-path, and breathe their fragrance from among the withered 

 leaves. 



I remember, too, the faded butterfly, flitting about the wood-shed roof. 

 His wings were torn and jagged at their edges, and their feathery beauty 

 had nearly all been left among last summer's flowers. Warned by No- 

 vember frosts, he had sought his winter shelter in some chink or crevice 

 among the loosened boards, where, benumbed and dormant, he had spent 

 the winter, awaiting the warmth of the returning sun to thaw him out, and 

 once more coax him into the outer world. As early as February, should 

 the day be mild, he would come out of his mysterious concealment and 

 bask in the warm sunshine. Presently he alights upon the end of a 

 birch-log in the wood-pile, and sips the sweet exuding sap. He is soon 

 joined by another, and another, until a swarm has gathered at the feast. 

 As the day declines, they retire again to the wood-shed, and there, hud- 

 dled together on the rafters, await their next opportunity of mild and 

 sunny weather. Even in a January thaw I have seen one of these faded 

 .butterflies that had left his hiding-place to tantalize a troop of hens 

 around the barn-yard door. 



I remember the torrent of rain and the freshet ; the broken dams and 

 bridges washed away. The softened ground yielded up its subterranean 

 frosts ; in all the trees the winter wounds bled with the quickened pulse ; 

 the elder spigots in the sugar-maples trickled all the clay ; and the neigh- 

 boring farms echoed with the snap of whip and voice of eager teamsters, 

 as the busy plough turned the dark-brown furrows, or the crushing har- 

 row combed the crumbling mould. How welcome were the evidences 

 of returning life among the low meadow-lands, where velvety-green tufts 

 of sprouting grass circled the borders of the marshy pools, and the 

 golden willow twigs bathed the brook-side in a luminous glow ! Here, 

 too, the alders hung their swinging tassels or trailed them o'er the sur- 

 face of the swollen stream. 



One by one the feathered flocks returned, and the little snow-birds 

 and the buntings, seeing their place usurped, left for the northward 



