104 BIRDS AND POETS 



The April of English literature corresponds nearly 

 to our May. In Great Britain, the swallow and 

 the cuckoo usually arrive by the middle of April; 

 with us, their appearance is a week or two later. 

 Our April, at its best, is a bright, laughing face 

 under a hood of snow, like the English March, but 

 presenting sharper contrasts, a greater mixture of 

 smiles and tears and icy looks than are known to 

 our ancestral climate. Indeed, Winter sometimes 

 retraces his steps in this month, and unburdens 

 himself of the snows that the previous cold has kept 

 back; but we are always sure of a number of radi- 

 ant, equable days, — days that go before the bud, 

 when the sun embraces the earth with fervor and 

 determination. How his beams pour into the woods 

 till the mould under the leaves is warm and emits 

 an odor! The waters glint and sparkle, the birds 

 gather in groups, and even those unwont to sing 

 find a voice. On the streets of the cities, what a 

 flutter, what bright looks and gay colors ! I recall 

 one preeminent day of this kind last April. I made 

 a note of it in my note-book. The earth seemed 

 suddenly to emerge from a wilderness of clouds and 

 chilliness into one of these blue sunlit spaces. How 

 the voyagers rejoiced! Invalids came forth, old 

 men sauntered down the street, stocks went up, and 

 the political outlook brightened. 



Such days bring out the last of the hibernating 

 animals. The woodchuck unrolls and creeps out of 

 his den to see if his clover has started yet. The 

 torpidity leaves the snakes and the turtles, and they 



