Not the eyes alone love Nature in March.  Every other sense hies abroad.  My tongue hunts for the last morsel of wet snow on the northern root of some aged oak.  As one goes early to a concert-hall with a passion even for the preliminary tuning of the musicians, so my ear sits alone in the vast amphitheatre of Nature and waits for the earliest warble of the blue-bird, which seems to start up somewhere behind the heavenly curtains.  And the scent of spring, is it not the first lyric of the nose—­that despised poet of the senses?

But this year I have hardly glanced at the small choice edition of Nature’s spring verses.  This by reason of the on-coming Cobbs, at the mere mention of whom I feel as though I were plunged up to my eyes in a vat of the prosaic.  Some days ago workmen went into the house and all but scoured the very memory of Jacob off the face of the earth.  Then there has been need to quiet Mrs. Walters.

Mrs. Walters does not get into our best society; so that the town is to her like a pond to a crane:  she wades round it, going in as far as she can, and snatches up such small fry as come shoreward from the middle.  In this way lately I have gotten hints of what is stirring in the vasty deeps of village opinion.

Mrs. Cobb is charged, among other dreadful things, with having ordered of the town manufacturer a carriage that is to be as fine as President Taylor’s, and with marching into church preceded by a servant, who bears her prayer-book on a velvet cushion.  What if she rode in Cinderella’s coach, or had her prayer-book carried before her on the back of a Green River turtle?  But to her sex she promises to be an invidious Christian.  I am rather disturbed by the gossip regarding the elder daughter.  But this is so conflicting that one impression is made only to be effaced by another.

A week ago their agent wanted to buy my place.  I was so outraged that I got down my map of Kentucky to see where these peculiar beings originate.  They come from a little town I the northwestern corner of the State, on the Ohio River, named Henderson—­named from that Richard Henderson who in the year 1775 bought about half of Kentucky from the Cherokees, and afterwards, as president of his purchase, addressed the first legislative assembly ever held in the West, seated under a big elm-tree outside the wall of Boonsborough fort.  These people must be his heirs, or they would never have tried to purchase my few Sabine acres.  It is no surprise to discover that they are from the Green River country.  They must bathe often in that stream.  I suppose they wanted my front yard to sow it in penny-royal, the characteristic growth of those districts.  They surely distil it and use it as a perfume on their handkerchiefs.  It was perhaps from the founder of this family that Thomas Jefferson got authority for his statement that the Ohio is the most beautiful river in the world—­unless, indeed, the President formed that notion of the Ohio upon lifting his eyes to it from the contemplation of Green River.  Henderson!  Green River region!  To this town and to the blue-grass country as Boeotia to Attica in the days of Pericles.  Hereafter I shall call these people my Green River Boeotians.