"Jonathan," I gasped4, "this isn't spring; it's winter of the most furious description. Let's reform the calendar and put up signs to warn the flowers. But I want my spring! I want it now!"
"Well," said Jonathan, "there it is. Look!" And he pointed5 across the brush of the near fence line, where a meadow stretched away, brown with the stubble and matted tangle6 of[Pg 39] last year's grass. Halfway7 up the springy slope, in a little fold of the hillside, was a shimmer8 of green—vivid, wonderful.
I forgot the wind. "Oh-h! Think of being a cow now and eating that! Eating spring itself!"
"If you were a cow," said Jonathan, with the usual masculine command of applicable information, "they wouldn't let you eat it."
"They wouldn't! Why not? Does it make them sick?"
"No; crazy."
"Crazy!"
"Just that. Crazy for grass. They won't touch hay any more, and there isn't enough grass for them—and there you are!"
"Did you make that up as you went along, Jonathan?"
"Ask any farmer."
But I think I will not ask a farmer. He might say it was not true, and I like to think it is. I am sorry the cows cannot have their grass, but glad they have the good taste to refuse hay. I should, if I were a cow. Not being one, I do not need an actual patch of green nibble9 to set me crazy. The smell of the[Pg 40] earth after a thaw10, a breath of soft air, a wave of delicious sweetness, in April, in March, in February,—when it comes in January I harden my heart and try not to notice,—this is enough to spoil me for the dry fodder11 of winter. Hay may be good and wholesome12, but I have had my taste of spring grass, and it is enough. That or nothing. No more hay for me!
What that strange sweetness of the early spring is I have never fully13 discovered. The fragrance14 of flowers is in it,—hepaticas, white violets, arbutus,—yet it is none of these. It comes before any of the flowers are even astir, when the arbutus buds are still tight little green points, when the hepaticas have scarcely pushed open their winter sheaths, while their soft little gray-furred heads are still tucked down snugly15, like a bird's head under its wing. Before even the snowdrops at our feet and the maples16 overhead have thought of blossoming, a soft breath may blow across our path filled with this wondrous17 fragrance. It is like a dream of May. One might believe the fairies were passing by.[Pg 41]
For years I was completely baffled by it. But one March, in the farm orchard18, I found out part of the secret. I was planting my sweet peas, when the well-remembered and bewildering fragrance blew across me. I sprang up and ran up the wind, and there, in the midst of the old orchard, I came upon an old apple tree just cut down by the thrift19 of Jonathan's farmer, who has no silly weakness for old apple trees. The fresh-cut wood was moist with sap, and as I bent20 over it—ah, there it was! Here were my hepaticas, my arbutus, here in the old apple tree! Such a surprise! I sat down beside it to think it over. I was sorry it was cut down, but glad it had told me its secret before it was made into logs and piled in the woodshed. Blazing in the fireplace it would tell me many things, but it might perhaps not have told me that.
And so I knew part of the secret. But only part. For the same fragrance has blown to me often where there were no orchards21 and no newly felled apple trees, and I have never, except this once, been able to trace it. If it is the flowing sap in all trees, why are not the[Pg 42] spring woods full of it? But they are not full of it; it comes only now and then, with tantalizing22 capriciousness. Do sound trees exhale23 it, certain kinds, when the sap starts, or must they have been cut or bruised24, if not by the axe25, perhaps by the winter winds and the ice storms? I do not know. I only know that when that breath of sweetness comes, it is the very breath of spring itself; it is the call of spring out of winter—spring grass.
When the call of the spring grass comes, there is always one spot that draws me with a special insistence26, and every year we have much the same talk about it.
"Jonathan," I say, "let's go to the Yellow Valley."
"Why," says Jonathan, "there will be more new birds up on the ridge27."
"I don't care about new birds. The old ones do very well for me."
"And you might find the first hepaticas under Indian Rock."
"I know. We'll go there next."
"And if we went farther up the river, we might see some black duck."[Pg 43]
"Very likely; but I don't feel as if I particularly had to see black duck to-day."
"What do you have to see?"
"Nothing special. Just plain spring."
That is the charm of the Yellow Valley. It offers no spectacular inducements, no bargain-counter attractions in the shape of new arrivals among the birds or flowers. One returns from it with no trophies28 of any kind, nothing to put down in one's notebook, if one keeps a notebook,—from which industry may I be forever preserved! But it is a place to go to and be quiet, which is good for us all, especially in the springtime, when there is so much going on in the world, and especially lately, since "nature study" has driven people into being so unceasingly busy when they are outdoors. Opera-glasses and bird books have their place, no doubt, in the advance of mankind, but they often seem to me nothing but more machinery29 coming in between us and the real things. Perhaps it was once true that when people went out to view "nature," they did not see enough. Now, I fancy, they see too much; they cannot see the spring for the birds. Their motto is that of Rikki-Tikki,[Pg 44] the mongoose, "Run and find out"—an excellent motto for a mongoose,—but for people on a spring ramble30!
The unquenchable ardor31 of the bird lover, so called, fills me with dismay. One enthusiast32, writing in a school journal, describes the difficulties of following up the birds: "Often eyes all around one's head, with opera-glasses focused at each pair, would not suffice to keep the restless birds in view." If this is the ideal of the bird lover, it is not mine. I wonder she did not wish for extra pairs of legs to match each set of eyes and opera-glasses, and a divisible body, so that she might scamper33 off in sections after all these marvels34. For myself, one pair of eyes gives me, I find, all the satisfaction and delight I know what to do with, and I cannot help feeling that, if I had more, I should have less. The same writer speaks of the "maddening" warbler notes. Why maddening? Because, forsooth, there are thirty warblers, and one cannot learn all their names. What a pity to be maddened by a little warbler! And about a matter of names, too. After all, the bird, the song, is the thing. And it seems a pity to carry the chasing of bird[Pg 45] notes quite so far. They are meant, I feel sure, to be hearkened to in quietness of spirit, to be tasted delicately, as one would a wine. The life of the opera-glassed bird hunter, compared to mine, seems to me like the experience of a tea-taster compared to that of one who sits in cozy35 and irresponsible enjoyment36 of the cup her friend hands her.
And so there always comes a time in the spring when I must go to my Yellow Valley. A car ride, a walk on through plain little suburbs, a scramble37 across fields to a seldom-used railway track, a swing out along the ties, then off across more fields, over a little ridge, and—there! Oh, the soft glory of color! We are at the west end of a miniature valley, full of afternoon sunlight slanting38 across a level blur39 of yellows and browns. On one side low brown hills enfold it, on the other runs a swift little river, whose steep farther bank is overhung with hemlocks40 and laurel in brightening spring green. It is a very tiny valley,—one could almost throw a stone across it,—and the whole bottom is filled with waving grass, waist-high, of a wonderful pale straw color; last year's grass, which the winter snows[Pg 46] never seem to mat down, thick-set with the tall brown stalks of last year's goldenrod and mullein and primrose41. The trees and bushes are dwarf42 oaks, with their old leafage still clinging in tawny43 masses, and willows44, with their bunches of slim, yellow shoots. Even the little river is yellow-brown, from the sand and pebbles45 and leaves of its bed, and the sun, as it slants46 down the length of the valley, wraps it in a warm, yellow haze47.
I call the valley mine, for no one else seems to know it. The long grass is never cut, but left to wave its glory of yellow all through the fall and winter and spring. There is a little footpath48 running through it, but I never see any one on it. I often wonder who makes all the footpaths49 I know, where no one ever seems to pass. Is it rabbits, or ghosts? Whoever they may be, in this case they do not trouble me, and the valley is as much mine as though I had cut it out of a medi?val romance.
It is always very quiet here. At least it seems so, though full of sound, as the world always is. But its sounds are its own; perhaps that is the secret; the rustle50 of the oak leaves as the wind fumbles51 among them; the swish-swish[Pg 47] of the long dry grasses, which can be heard only if one sits down in their midst, very still; the light, purling sounds of the river; the soft gush52 of water about some bending branch as its tip catches and drags in the shifting current. The winds lose a little of their fierceness as they drop into the valley, and they seem to have left behind them all the sounds of the outer world which they usually bear. If now and then they waft53 hitherward the long call of a locomotive, they soften54 it till it is only a dreamy reminder55.
It is strange that in a spot so specially1 full of the tokens of last year's life,—the dry grasses, the old oak leaves not yet pushed off by the new buds,—where the only green is of the hemlocks and laurels56 that have weathered the winter,—it is strange that in such a spot one should feel the immanence of spring. Perhaps it is the bluebird that does it. For it is the bluebird's valley as well as mine. There are other birds there, but not many, and it is the bluebird which best voices the spirit of the place. Most birds in the spring imply an audience. The song sparrow, with the lift and the lilt of his song, sings to the[Pg 48] universe; the red-wing calls to all the sunny world to be gleeful with him; the long-drawn sweetness of the meadowlark floats over broad meadows and wide horizons; the bobolink, in the tumbling eagerness of his jubilation57, is for every one to hear. But the bluebird sings to himself. His gentle notes, not heard but overheard, are for those who listen softly. And in the Yellow Valley he is at home.
I am at home, too, and I find there something that I find nowhere else so well. Its charm is in the simpleness of its appeal:—
"Only the mightier58 movement sounds and passes,
Only winds and rivers—"
I bring back from it a memory of sunshine and grass, bird notes and running water, the broad realities of nature. Nay59, more than a memory—a mood that holds—a certain poise60 of spirit that comes from a sense of the largeness and sweetness and sufficiency of the whole live, growing world. Spring grass—the rare fragrance of the spring air—is the call. The Yellow Valley holds the answer.
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1
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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7
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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8
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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10
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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11
fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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12
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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13
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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14
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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16
maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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17
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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18
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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19
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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20
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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22
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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23
exhale
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| v.呼气，散出，吐出，蒸发 | |
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24
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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25
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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26
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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27
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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28
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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29
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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30
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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31
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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32
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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33
scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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34
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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35
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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36
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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37
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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38
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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39
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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40
hemlocks
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| 由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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41
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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42
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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43
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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44
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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45
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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46
slants
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| （使）倾斜，歪斜( slant的第三人称单数 )； 有倾向性地编写或报道 | |
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47
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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48
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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49
footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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50
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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51
fumbles
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| 摸索，笨拙的处理( fumble的名词复数 ) | |
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52
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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53
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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54
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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55
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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56
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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57
jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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58
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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59
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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