It is a fine snow, gentle at first; but it soon drives in swerving
lines, for the wind is from the southwest, from the west, from the
northeast, from the zenith (one of the ordinary winds of New England),
from all points of the compass. The fine snow becomes rain; it becomes
large snow; it melts as it falls; it freezes as it falls. At last a
storm sets in, and night shuts down upon the bleak scene.
During the night there is a change. It thunders and lightens. Toward
morning there is a brilliant display of aurora borealis. This is a sign
of colder weather.
The gardener is in despair; so is the sportsman. The trout take no
pleasure in biting in such weather.
Paragraphs appear in the newspapers, copied from the paper of last year,
saying that this is the most severe spring in thirty years. Every one,
in fact, believes that it is, and also that next year the spring will be
early. Man is the most gullible of creatures.
And with reason: he trusts his eyes, and not his instinct. During this
most sour weather of the year, the anemone blossoms; and, almost
immediately after, the fairy pencil, the spring beauty, the dog-tooth
violet, and the true violet. In clouds and fog, and rain and snow, and
all discouragement, Nature pushes on her forces with progressive haste
and rapidity.
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