How Spring Came in New England | Page 9

His great power is in the
low pressure.

On the Bexar plains of Texas, among the hills of the Presidio, along the
Rio Grande, low pressure is bred; it is nursed also in the Atchafalaya
swamps of Louisiana; it moves by the way of Thibodeaux and Bonnet
Carre. The southwest is a magazine of atmospheric disasters. Low
pressure may be no worse than the others: it is better known, and is
most used to inspire terror. It can be summoned any time also from the
everglades of Florida, from the morasses of the Okeechobee.
When the New-Englander sees this in his news paper, he knows what it
means. He has twenty-four hours' warning; but what can he do?
Nothing but watch its certain advance by telegraph. He suffers in
anticipation. That is what Old Prob. has brought about, suffering by
anticipation. This low pressure advances against the wind. The wind is
from the northeast. Nothing could be more unpleasant than a northeast
wind? Wait till low pressure joins it. Together they make spring in New
England. A northeast storm from the southwest!--there is no bitterer
satire than this. It lasts three days. After that the weather changes into
something winter-like.
A solitary song-sparrow, without a note of joy, hops along the snow to
the dining-room window, and, turning his little head aside, looks up.
He is hungry and cold. Little Minnette, clasping her hands behind her
back, stands and looks at him, and says, "Po' birdie!" They appear to
understand each other. The sparrow gets his crumb; but he knows too
much to let Minnette get hold of him. Neither of these little things
could take care of itself in a New-England spring not in the depths of it.
This is what the father of Minnette, looking out of the window upon the
wide waste of snow, and the evergreens bent to the ground with the
weight of it, says, "It looks like the depths of spring." To this has man
come: to his facetiousness has succeeded sarcasm. It is the first of May.
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. 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. Before one is aware, all the lawns