Before that, men had suffered without knowing the degree of their suffering.A century later, Romer hit upon the idea of using mercury in a thermometer; and Fahrenheit constructed the instrument which adds a new because distinct terror to the weather.Science names and registers the ills of life; and yet it is a gain to know the names and habits of our enemies.It is with some satisfaction in our knowledge that we say the thermometer marks zero.
In fact, the wild beast called Winter, untamed, has returned, and taken possession of New England.Nature, giving up her melting mood, has retired into dumbness and white stagnation.But we are wise.We say it is better to have it now than later.We have a conceit of understanding things.
The sun is in alliance with the earth.Between the two the snow is uncomfortable.Compelled to go, it decides to go suddenly.The first day there is slush with rain; the second day, mud with hail;the third day a flood with sunshine.The thermometer declares that the temperature is delightful.Man shivers and sneezes.His neighbor dies of some disease newly named by science; but he dies all the same as if it hadn't been newly named.Science has not discovered any name that is not fatal.
This is called the breaking-up of winter.
Nature seems for some days to be in doubt, not exactly able to stand still, not daring to put forth anything tender.Man says that the worst is over.If he should live a thousand years, he would be deceived every year.And this is called an age of skepticism.Man never believed in so many things as now: he never believed so much in himself.As to Nature, he knows her secrets: he can predict what she will do.He communicates with the next world by means of an alphabet which he has invented.He talks with souls at the other end of the spirit-wire.To be sure, neither of them says anything; but they talk.Is not that something? He suspends the law of gravitation as to his own body--he has learned how to evade it--as tyrants suspend the legal writs of habeas corpus.When Gravitation asks for his body, she cannot have it.He says of himself, "I am infallible; I am sublime." He believes all these things.He is master of the elements.Shakespeare sends him a poem just made, and as good a poem as the man could write himself.And yet this man--he goes out of doors without his overcoat, catches cold, and is buried in three days."On the 21st of January," exclaimed Mercier, "all kings felt for the backs of their necks." This might be said of all men in New England in the spring.This is the season that all the poets celebrate.Let us suppose that once, in Thessaly, there was a genial spring, and there was a poet who sang of it.All later poets have sung the same song."Voila tout!" That is the root of poetry.
Another delusion.We hear toward evening, high in air, the "conk" of the wild-geese.Looking up, you see the black specks of that adventurous triangle, winging along in rapid flight northward.
Perhaps it takes a wide returning sweep, in doubt; but it disappears in the north.There is no mistaking that sign.This unmusical "conk" is sweeter than the "kerchunk" of the bull-frog.Probably these birds are not idiots, and probably they turned back south again after spying out the nakedness of the land; but they have made their sign.Next day there is a rumor that somebody has seen a bluebird.
This rumor, unhappily for the bird (which will freeze to death), is confirmed.In less than three days everybody has seen a bluebird;and favored people have heard a robin or rather the yellow-breasted thrush, misnamed a robin in America.This is no doubt true: for angle-worms have been seen on the surface of the ground; and, wherever there is anything to eat, the robin is promptly on hand.
About this time you notice, in protected, sunny spots, that the grass has a little color.But you say that it is the grass of last fall.
It is very difficult to tell when the grass of last fall became the grass of this spring.It looks "warmed over." The green is rusty.
The lilac-buds have certainly swollen a little, and so have those of the soft maple.In the rain the grass does not brighten as you think it ought to, and it is only when the rain turns to snow that you see any decided green color by contrast with the white.The snow gradually covers everything very quietly, however.Winter comes back without the least noise or bustle, tireless, malicious, implacable.
Neither party in the fight now makes much fuss over it; and you might think that Nature had surrendered altogether, if you did not find about this time, in the Woods, on the edge of a snow-bank, the modest blossoms of the trailing arbutus, shedding their delicious perfume.
The bravest are always the tenderest, says the poet.The season, in its blind way, is trying to express itself.
And it is assisted.There is a cheerful chatter in the trees.The blackbirds have come, and in numbers, households of them, villages of them,--communes, rather.They do not believe in God, these black-birds.They think they can take care of themselves.We shall see.
But they are well informed.They arrived just as the last snow-bank melted.One cannot say now that there is not greenness in the grass;not in the wide fields, to be sure, but on lawns and banks sloping south.The dark-spotted leaves of the dog-tooth violet begin to show.Even Fahrenheit's contrivance joins in the upward movement:
the mercury has suddenly gone up from thirty degrees to sixty-five degrees.It is time for the ice-man.Ice has no sooner disappeared than we desire it.
There is a smile, if one may say so, in the blue sky, and there is.
