The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1852-06-10
From Dickons's Household Words.
WHAT HAS BECOME OF WINTER

People are now putting on the best faces they
can to welcome the Spring. Welcome the
Spring, indeed! when we have had no winter
welcome light pudding when we have had
no meat trust am Briton, and know how
to grumble. ain those vernal seasons of the
year when the air is calm and pleasant" says
Milton, lit were an injury and sullenness
against Nature, not to go out and see her riches,
and partake in her rejoicings with heaven and
earth" If Nature is mean enough to rejoice
after having defrauded me of my winter,
scratch her name out of my visiting book I
won't "go out and see her"
want my Winter. As Fanshawe says:
Spring the years youth, fair mother of new flowers,
New leaves new loves, drawn by the winged Hours,
Thou art returned but nought returns with thee,
Save my lost joys regrotful memory"
Now, Spring, it would serve you right that n
lost joys regretfu memory should stick to you
also; and mean to make you cry half April
through, by letting you understand what pref
ty things might have said about you, if the
conduct of Nature on a late occasion had not
put me out of temper. want you to feel what
you have lost and for that reason only touch
you with little praise which might have
meant in earnest but distinctly now inform you
that utter only out of spite to let you see how
delcately could flatter, if chose, your vanity
and beauty Now hear what | could have
done.
Dear httlseSpria& the black and withered
twigs that have worn all the same livery of
mourning throughout the dreary months of
winter, because there was no skating to be had J
are trickng themselves out in their holyday
CARDS, because you are coming down to see
10 I'M, ~
saffron colored robe, another puts on blue,
and some twig somewhere plays the dandy in
scarlet uniform. The sunny slopes are reek-
ing with the early mists, and the fields are lay
ing down their carpets for the lambs to dance
upon. The sap is stirring in the trees and
swelling in the bud, and the early breeze comes
fresh and fragrant as if it blew through the
boudoir Of Nature, while she was getting up in
the morning and making free use Of her per-
fumery. The owl is hooting from the turret,
and by 80 doing shows his wisdom; for to hoot
at Spring, when she appears out of her turn, is
only proper. Her true cue is "hard frost" and
she should have waited for it. The owl is boot
ing from the turret, the rock screaming from
his swinging nest ON the tall tree top and the
cuckoo shouting from the lonely glen. The
blackbird whistles from the husband he mag
whistle, it's Winter that he wants to see ever
again on this side Of the year 1000. I'm driven
to be respondent. The blackbird whistles from
the bush, and the throstle from the grove, and
the deep coo of the ringdove is heard in the
woods The feathcred emgrants who had Ia.
ken refuge on our shores from the illbesal edict'
OF an arctic winter-though IN arctic winter
is much better than none-hberty Of the plume
beng restored, 90 back to the North again
Those who emigrated from our winter, before
they knew that We were not TO have any, arr
now returning, one flight after another, to jor
in the Ornithological concert that takes place
under the management Of Spring. The mar
tins and the wrens and the redstarts have come
into the concert with small pipes, the nightin
gale has come with flute, the linnet and the
goldhnch with lutte, the lark, that sky-rocke
In feathers gets its music up 30 thoroughly