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.
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