Balmy spring—weeks later than we expected， andmonths later than we longed for her—comes at last， torevive the moss on the roof and walls of our old mansion.
She peeps brightly into my study-window， inviting meto throw it open， and create a summer atmosphere bythe intermixture of her genial breath with the blackand cheerless comfort of the stove. As the casementascends， forth into infinite space fly the innumerableforms of thought or fancy， that have kept me company inthe retirement of this little chamber， during the sluggishlapse of wintry weather； —visions， gay， grotesque， and sad；pictures of real life， tinted with nature’s homely gray andrusset； scenes in dream-land， bedizened with rainbow-hues，which faded before they were well laid on； —all these mayvanish now， and leave me to mould a fresh existence out ofsunshine. Brooding meditation may flap her dusky wings，and take her owl-like flight， blinking amid the cheerfulnessof noontide. Such companions befit the season of frostedwindow-panes and crackling fires， when the blast howlsthrough the black ash-trees of our avenue， and the driftingsnow-storm chokes up the wood-paths， and fills thehighway from stone-wall to stone-wall. In the spring andsummer time， all sombre thoughts should follow the winternorthward， with the sombre and thoughtful crows. The old，paradisiacal economy of life is again in force； we live， not tothink， nor to labor， but for the simple end of being happy；nothing， for the present hour， is worthy of man’s infinitecapacity， save to imbibe the warm smile of heaven， andsympathize with the reviving earth.
The present Spring comes onward with fleeter footsteps，because winter lingered so unconscionably long， that， withher best diligence， she can hardly retrieve half the allottedperiod of her reign. It is but a fortnight， since I stood onthe brink of our swollen river， and beheld the accumulatedice of four frozen months go down the stream. Exceptin streaks here and there upon the hill-sides， the wholevisible universe was then covered with deep snow， thenethermost layer of which had been deposited by an earlyDecember storm. It was a sight to make the beholdertorpid， in the impossibility of imagining how this vastwhite napkin was to be removed from the face of thecorpselike world， in less time than had been required tospread it there. But who can estimate the power of gentleinfluences， whether amid material desolation， or the moralwinter of man’s heart！ There have been no tempestuousrains， even no sultry days， but a constant breath ofsouthern winds， with now a day of kindly sunshine， andnow a no less kindly mist， or a soft descent of showers， inwhich a smile and a blessing seemed to have been steeped.
The snow has vanished as if by magic； whatever heaps maybe hidden in the woods and deep gorges of the hills， onlytwo solitary specks remain in the landscape； and those Ishall almost regret to miss， when， to-morrow， I look forthem in vain. Never before， methinks， has spring pressedso closely on the footsteps of retreating winter. Along theroad-side， the green blades of grass have sprouted on thevery edge of the snowdrifts. The pastures and mowingfields have not yet assumed a general aspect of verdure；but neither have they the cheerless brown tint whichthey wear in latter autumn， when vegetation has entirelyceased； there is now a faint shadow of life， graduallybrightening into the warm reality. Some tracts， in a happyexposure—as， for instance， yonder south-western slope ofan orchard， in front of that old red farm-house， beyondthe river—such patches of land already wear a beautifuland tender green， to which no future luxuriance canadd a charm. It looks unreal—a prophecy—a hope—atransitory effect of some peculiar light， which will vanishwith the slightest motion of the eye. But beauty is never adelusion； not these verdant tracts， but the dark and barrenlandscape， all around them， is a shadow and a dream. Eachmoment wins some portion of the earth from death tolife； a sudden gleam of verdure brightens along the sunnyslope of a bank， which， an instant ago， was brown andbare. You look again， and behold an apparition of greengrass！
The trees， in our orchard and elsewhere， are as yet naked，but already appear full of life and vegetable blood. It seemsas if， by one magic touch， they might instantaneouslyburst into full foliage， and that the wind， which now sighsthrough their naked branches， might make sudden musicamid innumerable leaves. The moss-grown willow-tree，which， for forty years past， has overshadowed thesewestern windows， will be among the first to put on itsgreen attire. There are some objections to the willow； itis not a dry and cleanly tree， and impresses the beholderwith an association of sliminess. No trees， I think， areperfectly agreeable as companions， unless they have glossyleaves， dry bark， and a firm and hard texture of trunk andbranches. But the willow is almost the earliest to gladdenus with the promise and reality of beauty， in its gracefuland delicate foliage， and the last to scatter its yellow， yetscarcely withered leaves， upon the ground. All through thewinter， too， its yellow twigs give it a sunny aspect， whichis not without a cheering influence， even in the grayestand gloomiest day. Beneath a clouded sky， it faithfullyremembers the sunshine. Our old house would lose acharm， were the willow to be cut down， with its goldencrown over the snow-covered roof， and its heap of summerverdure.
