Balmy, yet fresh, the very soul of health—
Of health, of hope, of joy; by these bright beams,
And yonder azure heavens, I know it well.
Soon the pent blossom in the naked spray,
Trained to the sunny wall, shall own her power,
And ope its leaves, tinged like an ocean shell:
Soon shall each bank which fronts the southern sky,
And tangled wood, and quiet sheltered nook,
Be gemm’d with countless flowers—earth’s living stars.”
Mild, pleasant weather in March is seldom, however, of long duration. In Europe, where the seasons are much more forward than they are with us, they have an old proverb—“A peck of March dust is worth a king’s ransom.” For as soon as a few dry days have made the land fit for working, the farmer goes to the plough, and, if the fair weather continues, proceeds to sowing oats and barley, though this business is seldom finished till the next month.