A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



sky or filling the woods, the elfin horn of 

 the first honey-bee venturing abroad in the 

 middle of the day, the clear piping of the 

 little frogs in the marshes at sundown, the 

 camp-fire in the sugar-bush, the smoke seen 

 afar rising over the trees, the tinge of green 

 that comes so suddenly on the sunny knolls 

 and slopes, the full translucent streams, the 

 waxing and warming sun, — how these 

 things and others like them are noted by 

 the eager eye and ear ! April is my natal 

 month, and I am born again into new delight 

 and new surprises at each return of it. Its 

 name has an indescribable charm to me. Its 

 two syllables are like the calls of the first 

 birds, — like that of the phoebe-bird, or of 

 the meadow-lark. Its very snows are fertil- 

 izing, and are called the poor man's manure. 

 Then its odors ! I am thrilled by its fresh 

 and indescribable odors, — the perfume of 

 the bursting sod, of the quickened roots and 

 rootlets, of the mould under the leaves, of 

 the fresh furrows. No other month has 

 odors like it. The west wind the other day 

 came fraught with a perfume that was to 

 the sense of smell what a wild and delicate 

 strain of music is to the ear. It was almost 

 transcendental. I walked across the hill 

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