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THE PHYSIOGNOMY OF THE SEASONS—SPRING. 



we seek her. We do not ask if winter is gone, but if 

 spring is come ; and our answer comes in the wakening 

 of all nature. The dormouse and the woodchuck come 

 from their holes where they have slumbered through the 

 long winter, and again begin to live ; life in the soil 

 quickens, and sap begins to flow in the veins of the 

 trees ; chlorophyl is developed in all vegetation, and a 

 mantle of green is speedily spread out upon the earth. 



With the first awakening begin those changes that 

 determine the physiognomic aspects of the advancing 

 season. Much of the physiognomy of a certain land- 

 scape depends upon form, which in its outlines does not 

 greatly vary. The proportion of open field to forest or 

 copse remains about the same from season to season. 

 The woods, if composed of deciduous growths, only be- 

 come denser, more compact, more umbrageous, more 

 strongly relieved between field and sky ; as the season ad- 

 vances their foliage makes continuously heavier masses, 

 and their black shadows are more boldly outlined. 



The first change in color in the woodland is from the 

 dead browns of the naked branches to a gray pearliness. 

 This is when the sap begins to flow beneath the bark, 

 and the tree, like the dormouse, wakens from its win- 

 ter's sleep. In the strong sunlight, the woods glisten with 

 these masses of pearly hues. When the buds start, 

 there is a change toward a pinker tinge, which gradu- 

 ally deepens and verges towards ruby. This is the 

 last stage before the leaves come out ; then, on a rare 

 morning we waken, and, lo ! the woods are green. 



The fields, which have lain yellow with last year's 



stubble, now show green about the edges where the turf 

 has not been disturbed for many a year. Presently, 

 close beside this green line, appears another and differ- 

 ent one ; at a distance it is reddish, and as the farmer 

 turns furrow after furrow, the field finally lays like a 

 ruby square in the landscape, all fringed about with 

 emerald. Now the changes become kaleidoscopic; 

 the masses of green in the woods become yet more 

 dense ; the red earth, upon which grain has been sown, 

 is faintly tinged with a paler green than is shown else- 

 where in the landscape ; then, day by day, this deepens 

 and darkens ; nature ceases to be so sportive with her 

 colors, and the landscape becomes quiet, settled, rest- 

 ful-green. 



We have been told by some astronomer (whether in 

 sportive mood or because science has revealed this secret 

 to him, I know not) that, in the moon, all vegetation is 

 red. If this is so, doubtless the retina of the lunar 

 resident has been so adjusted by Providence as to make 

 that a grateful color, or at least, knowing nothing of the 

 vernal beauty that clothes our world, he is satisfied 

 with his own through that ignorance, upon which so 

 much bliss is predicated. But for ourselves, if this 

 mantle of green, with its sense of freshness that no 

 other color can typify to us, was not spread upon the 

 earth with each returning year, we should sensibly miss 

 the chief charm of spring. And this is a charm that 

 doth grow by that it feeds on, as do the charms of all 

 the phenomena of the seasons. 



Ohio. James K. Reeve. 



