APRIL DAYS.

  “Can trouble dwell with April days?”

In Memoriam.

In our methodical New England life, we still recognize some magic in summer.  Most persons reluctantly resign themselves to being decently happy in June, at least.  They accept June.  They compliment its weather.  They complained of the earlier months as cold, and so spent them in the city; and they will complain of the later months as hot, and so refrigerate themselves on some barren sea-coast.  God offers us yearly a necklace of twelve pearls; most men choose the fairest, label it June, and cast the rest away.  It is time to chant a hymn of more liberal gratitude.

There are no days in the whole round year more delicious than those which often come to us in the latter half of April.  On these days one goes forth in the morning, and an Italian warmth broods over all the hills, taking visible shape in a glistening mist of silvered azure, with which mingles the smoke from many bonfires.  The sun trembles in his own soft rays, till one understands the old English tradition, that he dances on Easter-Day.  Swimming in a sea of glory, the tops of the hills look nearer than their bases, and their glistening watercourses seem close to the eye, as is their liberated murmur to the ear.  All across this broad interval the teams are ploughing.  The grass in the meadow seems all to have grown green since yesterday.  The blackbirds jangle in the oak, the robin is perched upon the elm, the song-sparrow on the hazel, and the bluebird on the apple-tree.  There rises a hawk and sails slowly, the stateliest of airy things, a floating dream of long and languid summer-hours.  But as yet, though there is warmth enough for a sense of luxury, there is coolness enough for exertion.  No tropics can offer such a burst of joy; indeed, no zone much warmer than our Northern States can offer a genuine spring.  There can be none where there is no winter, and the monotone of the seasons is broken only by wearisome rains.  Vegetation and birds being distributed over the year, there is no burst of verdure nor of song.  But with us, as the buds are swelling, the birds are arriving; they are building their nests almost simultaneously; and in all the Southern year there is no such rapture of beauty and of melody as here marks every morning from the last of April onward.

But days even earlier than these in April have a charm,—­even days that seem raw and rainy, when the sky is dull and a bequest of March-wind lingers, chasing the squirrel from the tree and the children from the meadows.  There is a fascination in walking through these bare early woods,—­there is such a pause of preparation, winter’s work is so cleanly and thoroughly done.  Everything is taken down and put away; throughout the leafy arcades the branches show no remnant of last year, save a few twisted leaves of oak and beech, a few empty seed-vessels of the tardy witch-hazel,