and there over the landscape. The clouds above fly about with a brisker motion, and the paths under our feet, which yesterday were intolerably miry, become at once solid and dry. The change is surprising. Twelve hours of March air will dry the surface of the earth almost to dustiness, even though no sunshine should be seen; and "a peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom," says the old proverb, which we may suppose means, that the drying property of March is invaluable, removing the superabundant humidity, and enabling the husbandman to get in his seeds -the hope of summer produce. So speedily does the mire of winter vanish in this month, that country people, who connect their adages, which, though significant are not literally true, with something which makes them partially so, say, "the rooks have picked up all the dirt," because the rooks are now busily employed in building their nests, and use mire to line them, as do magpies too at this period; who place their thorny halls on the tops of the yet leafless trees, objects conspicuous but secure. March is a rude, and sometimes boisterous month, possessing many of the characteristics of winter, yet awakening sensations perhaps more delicious than the two following spring months, for it gives us the first announcement and taste of spring. What can equal the delight of our hearts at the very first glimpse of spring-the first springing of buds and green herbs. It is like a new life infused into our bosoms. A spirit of tenderness, a burst of freshness and luxury of feeling possesses us: and let fifty springs have broken upon us, this joy, unlike many joys of time, is not an atom impaired. Are we not young? Are we not boys? Do we not break, by the power of awakened thoughts, into all the rapturous scenes of all our happier years? There is something in the freshness of the soil-in the mossy bank-the balmy air-the voices of birds the early and delicious flowers, that we have seen and felt only in childhood and spring. There are frequently mornings in March, when a lover of Nature may enjoy, in a stroll, sensations not to be exceeded, or perhaps equalled by any thing which the full glory of summer can awaken :-mornings which tempt us to cast the memory of winter, or the fear of its return out of our thoughts. The air is mild and balmy, with, now and then, a cool gush by no means unpleasant, but, on the contrary, contributing towards that cheering and peculiar feeling which we experience only in spring. The sky is clear; the sun flings abroad not only a gladdening splendour, but an almost summer glow. The world seems suddenly aroused to hope and enjoyment. The fields are assuming a vernal greenness― the buds are swelling in the hedges—the banks are displaying amidst the brown remains of last year's vegetation, the luxuriant weeds of this. There are arums, ground-ivy, chervil, the glaucus leaves, and burnished flowers of the pilewort, The first gilt thing That wears the trembling pearls of spring; and many other fresh and early bursts of greenery. All unexpectedly, too, in some embowered lane, you are arrested by the delicious odour of violets, those sweetest of Flora's children, which have furnished so many pretty allusions to the poets, and which are not yet exhausted: they are like true friends, we do not know half their sweetness till they have felt the sunshine of our kindness: and again, they are like the pleasures of our childhood, the earliest and the most beautiful. Now, however, they are to be seen in all their glory-blue and whitemodestly peering through their thick, clustering leaves. The lark is carolling in the blue fields of air; the blackbird and thrush are again shouting and replying to each other, from the tops of the highest trees. As you pass cottages, they have caught the happy infection: there are windows thrown open, and doors standing ajar. The inhabitants are in their gardens, some clearing away rubbish, some turning up the light and fresh-smelling soil amongst the tufts of snow-drops and rows of bright yellow crocuses, which every where abound; and the children, ten to one, are peeping into the first birds'-nest of the season-the hedge-sparrow's, with its four sea-green eggs, snugly but unwisely built in the pile of old pea-rods. In the fields labourers are plashing and trimming the hedges, and in all directions are teams at plough. You smell the wholesome, and, I may truly say, aromatic soil, as it is F us to cast the memory of winter, The first gilt thing That wears the trembling pearls of spring; and many other fresh and early bursts of ery. All unexpectedly, too, in some em ed lane, you are arrested by the delicious of violets, those sweetest of Flora's chi which have furnished so many pretty all to the poets, and whic they are like true fri me per |