Finally, among flowers we have now the singular spotted Fritillary; Heart’s-ease, the “little western flower,” that cannot be looked at or thought of without feeling its name; and the Auricula, that richest in its texture and colour of all the vegetable tribe, and as various as rich.
Among the Shrubs that form the inclosing belt of the flower-garden, the Lilac is in full leaf, and loaded with its heavy bunches of bloom-buds; the common Laurel, if it has reached its flowering age, is hanging out its meek modest flowers, preparatory to putting forth its vigorous summer shoots; and the Larch has on it hairy tufts of pink, stuck here and there among its delicate threads of green.
But the great charm of this month, both in the open country and the garden, is undoubtedly the infinite green which pervades it every where, and which we had best gaze our fill at while we may, as it lasts but a little while,—changing in a few weeks into an endless variety of shades and tints, that are equivalent to as many different colours. It is this, and the budding forth of every living member of the vegetable world, after its long winter death, that in fact constitutes the Spring; and the sight of which affects us in the manner it does, from various causes—chiefly moral and associated ones; but one of which is unquestionably physical: I mean the sight of so much tender green after the eye has been condemned to look for months and months on the mere negation of all colour, which prevails in winter in our climate. The eye feels cheered, cherished, and regaled by this colour, as the tongue does by a quick and pleasant taste, after having long palated nothing but tasteless and insipid things.
This is the principal charm of Spring, no doubt. But another, and one that is scarcely second to this, is, the bright flush of Blossoms that prevails over and almost hides every thing else in the Fruit-garden and Orchard. What exquisite differences and distinctions and resemblances there are between all the various blossoms of the fruit-trees; and no less in their general effect than in their separate details! The Almond-blossom, which comes first of all, and while the tree is quite bare of leaves, is of a bright blush-rose colour; and when they are fully blown, the tree, if it has been kept to a compact head instead of being permitted to straggle, looks like one huge rose, magnified by some fairy magic, to deck the bosom of some fair giantess. The various kinds of Plum follow, the blossoms of which are snow-white, and as full and clustering as those of the almond. The Peach and Nectarine, which are now full blown, are unlike either of the above; and their sweet effect, as if growing out of the hard bare wall, or the rough wooden paling, is peculiarly pretty. They are of a deep blush colour, and of a delicate bell shape, the lips, however, divided, and turning backward, to expose the interior to the cherishing sun.
But perhaps the bloom that is richest and most promising in its general appearance is that of the Cherry, clasping its white honours all round the long straight branches, from heel to point, and not letting a leaf or a bit of stem be seen, except the three or four leaves that come as a green finish at the extremity of each branch.
The other blossoms, of the Pears, and (loveliest of all) the Apples, do not come in perfection till next month.
In thinking of the circumstances which happen this month in connexion with the animal world, I scarcely know where to begin my observations, so numerous are the subjects, and so limited the space they must be despatched in. The Birds must have precedence, for they are now, for once in their lives, as busy as the bees are always. They are getting their houses built, and seeing to their household affairs, and concluding their family arrangements, that when the summer and the sunshine are fairly come, they may have nothing to do but teach their children the last new modes of flying and singing, and be as happy as—birds, for the rest of the year. Now, therefore, as in the last month, they have but little time to sing to each other; and the Lark has the morning sky all to himself. Not but we have other April melodies, and one or two the prémices of which belong so peculiarly to this month, that we must listen to them for a moment, whatever else is awaiting us. And first let us hearken to the Cuckoo, shooting out its soft and mellow, yet powerful voice, till it seems to fill the whole concave of the heavens with its two mysterious notes, the most primitive of musical melodies. Who can listen to those notes for the first time in Spring, and not feel his school days come back to him? And not as he did then
“————look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky?”
But he will be likely to look in vain; for so shy are they, that lucky (or rather unlucky, to my thinking) is he who has ever seen a cuckoo. I well remember that from the first moment I saw one flutter heavily out of an old hawthorn bush, and flurr awkwardly away across the meadow, as I was listening in rapt attention to its lonely voice, the mystery of the sound was gone, and with it no small share of its beauty.