ebruary is upon us; a severe, unrelenting month, in which winter seems to reign, in these northern regions, with resistless sway. Far to the south, as in Georgia and Louisiana, the birds have chosen their mates and are building their nests; the peas in the gardens are in blossom; the strawberries are beginning to form, and the lilacs and roses are in bloom. But here, alas, the rivers are in icy fetters—the earth is wrapt in snow—and not a symptom of starting vegetation is seen over the whole face of nature.
It may seem strange that February should be the coldest month in the year—yet so it is. In December we have the shortest days; then the nights are longest, and the sun bestows upon us the least warmth; why, then, should not December be the coldest month? The reason is this. In February, the heat has gone from the earth; the frost, ice and snow have accumulated; and these exercise an influence which the heat of the sun cannot yet overcome. If the sun remained as it is during the winter months, all vegetation would finally cease in our climate, and the whole country would remain buried in snow and ice.
In England, February has nearly the same character as our March, and it is regarded as the opening of spring. There the birds pair in February, and the blackbird, thrush and chaffinch fill the woods with their songs. The ravens begin to build their nests, the moles in the ground throw up their little hillocks, and some intrepid plants put forth their blossoms. The snow-drops, “fair maids of February,” as they are there called, often peep out, even though it be amidst the snow—the alder-tree discloses the flower-buds—and the catkins of the hazel become conspicuous in the hedges. This is the picture of things in old England. What a different picture is before us in New England!
The Three Sovereigns.
The following anecdote was often told by the late emperor Alexander, and is amongst the traditions of the Russian court:
In 1814, during the period that the allies were masters of Paris, the Czar, who resided in the hotel of M. de Talleyrand, was in the daily habit of taking a walk, (in strict incognito,) every morning, in the garden of the Tuilleries, and thence to the Palais Royale. He one day met two other sovereigns, and the three were returning arm-in-arm to breakfast in the Rue St. Florentin, when, on their way thither, they encountered a provincial, evidently freshly imported to Paris, and who had lost his way.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “can you tell me which is the Tuilleries?”
“Yes,” replied Alexander; “follow us; we are going that way, and will show you.”