I hear their
guttural twittering again and again; for awhile nothing but that
peculiar sound. As noon approaches other birds warm up. The reedy
notes of the robin, and a musical passage of two parts, one a clear
delicious gurgle, with several other birds I cannot place. To which
is join'd, (yes, I just hear it,) one low purr at intervals from some
impatient hylas at the pond-edge. The sibilant murmur of a pretty
stiff breeze now and then through the trees. Then a poor little dead
leaf, long frost-bound, whirls from somewhere up aloft in one wild
escaped freedom-spree in space and sunlight, and then dashes down to
the waters, which hold it closely and soon drown it out of sight. The
bushes and trees are yet bare, but the beeches have their wrinkled
yellow leaves of last season's foliage largely left, frequent cedars
and pines yet green, and the grass not without proofs of coming
fullness. And over all a wonderfully fine dome of clear blue, the play
of light coming and going, and great fleeces of white clouds swimming
so silently.
THE COMMON EARTH, THE SOIL
The soil, too--let others pen-and-ink the sea, the air, (as I
sometimes try)--but now I feel to choose the common soil for
theme--naught else. The brown soil here, (just between winter-close
and opening spring and vegetation)--the rain-shower at night, and
the fresh smell next morning--the red worms wriggling out of the
ground--the dead leaves, the incipient grass, and the latent life
underneath--the effort to start something--already in shelter'd spots
some little flowers--the distant emerald show of winter wheat and
the rye-fields--the yet naked trees, with clear insterstices, giving
prospects hidden in summer--the tough fallow and the plow-team, and
the stout boy whistling to his horses for encouragement--and there the
dark fat earth in long slanting stripes upturn'd.
Pages:
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175