THE ORCHIDS OF NEW ENGLAND. 
THERE are those who maintain that it is impossible to deter- 
mine the period when spring actually arrives in New England. 
There are days early in May, in Northern Vermont, when I am 
almost persuaded that I feel her presence. The practical 
farmer, recalling the precise date when the ice in the lake broke 
up, or when he sowed his grain, rebukes this sentimental lack 
of faith, and the birds assert their satisfaction in more poetical 
language. If Spring did not summon the song-sparrows, who 
did? Why have the blackbirds been pirating about for weeks ? 
The hepaticas are “ passing by,” in local speech ; the wreaths of 
bloodroot around the boulders by the roadsides are losing their 
freshness; the rocky ledges are tufted with saxifrage and hous- 
tonia; the swelling beech buds herald the downy yellow violet ; 
but with snowdrifts still visible upon the mountains, I remain 
incredulous until the middle of the month, when the season 
makes haste to fulfil its promises. The south wind, puffing as 
from a furnace mouth, sets the young leaves twinkling on their 
branches, and wafts faint perfumes from unknown sources. The 
ground is hot to the touch. You can trace the blossoming 
maples along the hillsides until the smoky atmosphere quenches 
their brightness. The ferns, as some one once described them, 
are coming up “fist first,” and trilliums and Canada violets 
whiten the wooded hillsides. 
In my rambles at this time, in cool upland places, I expect to 
