The season of which I speak does not correspond with the April of the almanac in all sections of our vast geography.  It answers to March in Virginia and Maryland, while in parts of New York and New England it laps well over into May.  It begins when the partridge drums, when the hyla pipes, when the shad start up the rivers, when the grass greens in the spring runs, and it ends when the leaves are unfolding and the last snowflake dissolves in midair.  It may be the first of May before the first swallow appears, before the whip-poor-will is heard, before the wood thrush sings; but it is April as long as there is snow upon the mountains, no matter what the almanac may say.  Our April is, in fact, a kind of Alpine summer, full of such contrasts and touches of wild, delicate beauty as no other season affords.  The deluded citizen fancies there is nothing enjoyable in the country till June, and so misses the freshest, tenderest part.  It is as if one should miss strawberries and begin his fruit-eating with melons and peaches.  These last are good,—­ supremely so, they are melting and luscious,—­but nothing so thrills and penetrates the taste, and wakes up and teases the papillae of the tongue, as the uncloying strawberry.  What midsummer sweetness half so distracting as its brisk sub-acid flavor, and what splendor of full-leaved June can stir the blood like the best of leafless April?

One characteristic April feature, and one that delights me very much, is the perfect emerald of the spring runs while the fields are yet brown and sere,—­strips and patches of the most vivid velvet green on the slopes and in the valleys.  How the eye grazes there, and is filled and refreshed!  I had forgotten what a marked feature this was until I recently rode in an open wagon for three days through a mountainous, pastoral country, remarkable for its fine springs.  Those delicious green patches are yet in my eye.  The fountains flowed with May.  Where no springs occurred, there were hints and suggestions of springs about the fields and by the roadside in the freshened grass,—­sometimes overflowing a space in the form of an actual fountain.  The water did not quite get to the surface in such places, but sent its influence.

The fields of wheat and rye, too, how they stand out of the April landscape,—­great green squares on a field of brown or gray!

Among April sounds there is none more welcome or suggestive to me than the voice of the little frogs piping in the marshes.  No bird-note can surpass it as a spring token; and as it is not mentioned, to my knowledge, by the poets and writers of other lands, I am ready to believe it is characteristic of our season alone.  You may be sure April has really come when this little amphibian creeps out of the mud and inflates its throat.  We talk of the bird inflating its throat, but you should see this tiny minstrel inflate its throat, which becomes like a large bubble, and suggests a drummer-boy with