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Then follows a day of bright sun and blue sky. The birds open the
morning with a lively chorus. In spite of Auster, Euroclydon, low
pressure, and the government bureau, things have gone forward. By the
roadside, where the snow has just melted, the grass is of the color of
emerald. The heart leaps to see it. On the lawn there are twenty
robins, lively, noisy, worm-seeking. Their yellow breasts contrast with
the tender green of the newly-springing clover and herd's-grass. If they
would only stand still, we might think the dandelions had blossomed. On
an evergreen-bough, looking at them, sits a graceful bird, whose back is
bluer than the sky. There is a red tint on the tips of the boughs of the
hard maple. With Nature, color is life. See, already, green, yellow,
blue, red! In a few days--is it not so?--through the green masses of the
trees will flash the orange of the oriole, the scarlet of the tanager;
perhaps tomorrow.
But, in fact, the next day opens a little sourly. It is almost clear
overhead: but the clouds thicken on the horizon; they look leaden; they
threaten rain. It certainly will rain: the air feels like rain, or snow.
By noon it begins to snow, and you hear the desolate cry of the phoebe-
bird.
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