... The yong Sunn
Hath in the Ramm his halvè cours yrunn.
CHAUCER.
In the earlier year when the chill winds blow
The breath of buds with the breath of snow,
And the climbing sap like a spirit passes
Through trunks unscreened from the noonday glow,
O’er the wind-frayed weeds and the withered grasses
And the leaves that linger in layered masses,
March, the Master of Hounds, doth go
To hunt the hills and the wet morasses.
C. H. LÜDERS.
MY books, my flowers, and my colorful interior surroundings do much to
relieve the monotony of the long winter months. Not until _Aries_
appears for his accustomed charge upon the spring do I yearn intently
for its advent. Then the days seem the longest—the tedious days of
waiting; the longest days, which are to come, will be the shortest. For
the days may not be measured by the length, but by the flight of the
hours and the beauty they bring; the sun and the shadows shorten the
longest day.
Does not a restlessness come to man with the ascending sap in the trees,
when he likewise would cast off the inertia that has possessed him, and
respond to the magical touch of the sun? There is much that is beautiful
in the mythopœic representation of the seasons. All winter, says the
legend, the sweet sunshine is chased by the relentless storm, now hiding
beneath the clouds, now below the hills, showing herself for a moment
merely to flee again. But, finally becoming bolder, the Sunshine
advances to meet the Storm, who, captivated by her beauty, woos her as
he pursues her, and wins her for his bride. Then is there great
rejoicing upon the earth, and from their union are born plants which
spring from its surface and spangle it with flowers. But every autumn
the Storm begins to frown anew, the Sunshine flees from him, and the
pursuit begins again.
Is not the sunshine, more than anything else, the prelude to spring? How
it sifts and permeates through the windows into one’s very being, this
first March sunshine! Looked at from within it is already spring
without, so luminous the atmosphere and so soft the shadows. Perfectly
aware am I that it may not continue and that the storm will cause the
sunlight to hide itself again, just as it has done so often before when
it merely gleamed for a moment from the edge of the cloud. Even now the
fickle sun sinks behind a sharp dark band in the west. The mole must
retreat to his burrow; to-morrow the storm and the snow! At least the
flowers will be shielded from the chilling blasts, and Nature work her
own reward. Still must the north wind beat ere the south breeze may
blow. But how, while it lasts, the sunlight warms where it falls,
drawing a scarlet aureole from the maple, setting the snow-banks free,
and liberating the ice-locked streams.
Every morning now must the Sun rise earlier to fulfill his task. The
buds of a million forests long for his touch, hillsides of spring beauty
and violets are eager for his approach, the flowers in every meadow and
woodland are awaiting his alchemy. Already the willow catkins have
stirred at his caress. The shrubby dogwood has felt his force, and
kindles into flame. The wands of the golden willow are gilded anew; the
red horn of the great aroid is peering from the mold.
Think of his task! To clear the earth of its coverlet of snow and
clarify the streams; to burst the chrysalis and put forth the leaves; to
push up the grass blades and perfume the flowers; to breathe upon and
resuscitate all the dormant world of vegetable and animal life. The
leaflets upon leaflets and fern fronds upon fern fronds the sunshine
must unfold; the acres of grain and the clover fields it must fall upon;
the myriad fruits it must ripen!
Lo! how marvelous the task; a smile and a summons for all!
Down in the hollows of the wood where the wind-flowers grow, under the
meadow-grasses where the blue flag and lily bulbs wait, below the waters
to bid the marsh marigolds and arrowheads rise, into the farthest swamps
where the orchid hides, in waste places where tares and teazles crowd,
on countless hillsides and in countless valleys must the sunbeams
penetrate and quicken to awakened life. And all this gradually, little
by little, day by day, hour by hour, bringing forth each blossom at its
appointed time, giving the butterfly his wings, providing the bee his
sustenance. What is there here on earth to compare with the miracle of
returning spring, the labor and strength of the Sun? The power of
Hercules a trillion fold is concentrated in the rays that are loosing
the fetters of the streams to-day. Lo! the marvel of the renascent year,
when Earth renews her youth and Nature is born again.
The March days pass, and more and more is the Sun’s strength felt. His
vassals, the showers and the south winds, he calls to aid him in his
task; and at once the grasses and larches turn green and arbutus and
bloodroot are fanned into bloom. A mile away the sunshine lights the
hills; a league away it burnishes and warms the river. Daily the beams
stream upon the earth and reveal fresh treasures. Swiftly a shadow
steals along the hills. The tempered April rain falls from the gray
April sky. Responsive, the sward assumes a brighter green, the daffodil
a richer gold. The sap mounts to the topmost branches and penetrates the
minutest twigs. Day by day the naked sprays are feathered by the pushing
buds. A scarf of green is flung across the copse. The shadblow silvers
the woods, columbine and cranesbill throng the slopes, and hepatica and
dog-tooth violet nod to the quickening breeze of spring.
The spring days pass, but the miracle remains; hourly a new marvel is
wrought by the sunlight and the shower. The oriole appears and orchards
burst into bloom; the wood-thrush sings and the dogwood and wild thorn
join the flowering pageant. The warm perfumed breath of the new year
floats upon the air—the breath of flower and grass and expanding bud.
Nature’s color-box opens anew; her brush is laid upon each petal with
what consummate address and variety!—pink upon the petals of the peach,
a flush on the cheek of the apple bloom, a gloss of gold upon the
buttercup. The Trillium thrusts up its snowy triangles, the gold-thread
its white stars, and banks become purple with violets. Tiny polypody and
oak-fern replume the stumps and bowlders. From the frost-smitten meadows
and waste places rise fresh pennants of green. Unfurled is the flag of
spring. And the hues and odors that are still in embryo and the sunshine
is preparing—all the sweets of June and the infinite beauties of
midsummer, the wealth of the roses, the clover bloom, the labyrinthine
tangle of wild flowers, even to the asters and colored leaf of autumn.
The foam and surge of the apple bloom are but a wave of the color and
fragrance that is to be. Æons ago the March sunlight fell upon the
flowers and primeval nature. Vegetation welcomed it then as it welcomes
it now. Next year and the next year and centuries hence will it fall
upon the earth and work out the miracle of spring. Is it not new and
ever beautiful, this vernal resurrection? That we, too, possessed this
subtle alchemy and might extract this elixir from the April sun!
How the wings of the doves glisten and mirror the rays as I watch them
floating by my windows! I love my flock of doves—the dove is so
associated with the relentment of the elements and the olive leaf of
spring. A monotonous life they lead in their diurnal circlings round the
barn and their self-same route over their circumscribed domain—a
monotonous life, at least, it appears to the observer, while probably
the very reverse to them. Every load of grain which comes to the
neighboring barns they may note from their vantage-ground and meditate
upon its special virtues. The droppings of the barley now being stored
in yonder granary undoubtedly form as weighty a subject to them as the
fluctuations in the market do to the maltster himself. Then the
incertitude which must attend the obtaining of their supply of food
naturally furnishes them with a constant source of speculation; besides,
who but they themselves may know what petty bickerings and jealousies
form the daily routine of their inner life? The jaunty leader of the
flock who curves his iris neck so proudly may be the humblest of
hen-pecked fathers in the privacy of his home; and what appears to be
the approving cooings of devoted dames may be only a prosaic homily on
the part of his exacting wives.
My flock of doves seem alway idling and courting the sunbeam. Now,
apparently, they are drifting aimlessly upon the air; again they veer
suddenly, to turn a gleaming wing for me to admire. With what
indescribable grace the circling forms hover over the eaves after each
of their tours of investigation, the swiftly fanning wings seeming to
cease their motion simultaneously as the flock alights, and once more
preens its iris in the sun. Indecision is a characteristic of my flock
of doves—always uncertain of the direction they would take, and
apparently never satisfied for more than a passing moment with their
surroundings. No sooner have they flown to the meadow beyond the copse
than they are back again; and scarcely have they perched upon the roof
or discovered fresh pickings ere they take flight in another direction,
to return as quickly. Is it that they, like the rest of us, are never
content, and that much must have more? I should like to quote them a
lyric from John Wilbye’s Second Set of Madrigals, which possibly they
may not have heard:
I live, and yet methinks I do not breathe;
I thirst and drink, I drink and thirst again;
I sleep, and yet do dream I am awake;
I hope for that I have; I have and want;
I sing and sigh; I love and hate at once.
Oh tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar
Doth cause in store such want, in peace such war?