LEAVES FROM AN APRIL JOURNAL. 39 



woodpeckers are silent, and the red-wings in 

 the swamps have ceased their mellifluous sug-er- 

 le-e-e, for awhile. Sometimes an entire week of 

 cold ends suddenly in a furious, blinding snow 

 storm, that hurls the little icy needles and pellets 

 on the traveler, and as night shuts down he finds 

 himself floundering along " in the depths of spring." 

 One views the landscape, the next bright morn- 

 ing, as a battle-field whereon the winter fought. 

 A general survey, indeed, gives it a desolate aspect. 

 The springing grasses appear winter-killed and 

 wrapped in winding-sheets. But if the scene is 

 studied in detail, one soon discovers that the vernal 

 army has conquered, or is pressing forward in a 

 noiseless but irresistible counter - charge. The 

 blackbird has already sounded his bugle for the 

 advance, the snow slinks away and flows off in 

 rills and streams of cold, colorless blood. Patches 

 of emerald, banners of the spring's forces, are first 

 seen in the swamps, so bright and vivid, in contrast 

 to the surrounding whiteness. At high noon the 

 ensign of winter is rent in many places and lies in 

 shreds, like strips of white cloth, along the shady 

 sides of waUs and thickets, and flocks of those lit- 

 tle camp-followers, the fox-sparrows, are scratching 

 lustUy, half in the snow and half on the bare 



