Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1860-03-23
TIE nprrN MOUNTAINS

rean regions to hear the singing birds in the
middle Of March. But for several days we
have listened to the song Of the robins, as
they have made the clear, crisp air Of our
pleasant, frosty mornings vibrate to the meas
uros Of their ringing music. These early
songs remind us Of many things yet to be en-
joyed They intimate that the long, dull ST
lence Of winter is broken, that the hills have
laid Off their white ccrcments and are about
robing themselves in the vcrna drapery.
"D1gere nire' yede'mi jam gramina camps
orbou bp'Yife conn.,
If we should take tho word robin for the
initiative Of a series Of words which should
follow each other according to the law Of mem
tai association, after the style of Dr. Oldham,
our list would run as follows Robin, Tree,
Garden, Worms, Rector. Brook, Lunch, st.
George, Trout, Ten Pounds, Mountains,
Mansfield. That is recently we never hear
robin sing in the first days of spring, without
going through a mental process that might be
symboized in the foregoing series Of words.
The first note Of the blessed music makes us
dream of the days not far ahead, when the
leaves shall clothe the naked trees; and then
the garden shall claim the hoe and shovel, and
its many seeds, under the soft hazy sun of
May. And as we turn up to the paternal
light and air, the mellow soil, we cannot help
seeking and thinking Of the long, squirting,
"wrigging little rascals" that grow by the
peck in the rich beds Of our garden. We ask,
what were they made for? And the answer
comes back from the cavernous depths Of
Sambos mouth, as he struggles to give utter
ance to his idea without losing the food he
designs for the fishes, " lPoorems feourr bolt"
Yes, Sambo, you have it. You have justified
to man the Providence that sows our gardens
with worms No sooner thought than done.
We gather up the igorms in a small tobacco
box (out Of which one Of our friends once took
a choice plug Of fine cut, and ask what we
shall do with them. The Rector passing by
and being informed Of the problem, answers,
"Lct us 20 to the Brook and there fasten them
one by one upon those barbed steel spnes
which fit them so nicely, and then drop line
upon line into the running water. As for
Lunch, st George always provides" St.
George is the patron saint Of all good fisher
men. The answer seems just and right, and
upon the word we start nor "stay upon our
going ride over the hills. in ever full
sight of the chrystallized beauties Of valleys
and mountans,-we walk by the side Of the
brooks, flowing with such sweet and rapid
murmurs, as to fill every sense with impress
sions of delight,-we stretch upon soft "banks
where the wild thyme blows" and dropping
our lines carefully as we 60, in all the pleas
ant places, we find them answered with such
despatch and electric fire, as to send thrilling
shocks through the entire length of the line
to the operator at the other end The beau
tiful, 1.-the, robustious, rosy, spotted Trout
instantly follows his communication, and as
he lies palpitating upon the grass, or gyrates
in mid-air, every nerve quivers with the gem
tie excitement. We finally drop the line all
together, and as we ride back again under the
sofening light of the westering sun, we reck-
on and calculate that we have got number
that weigh Ten Pounds.
That is one phase Of the Green Mountains.
There is another. We can hardly do it JUS
tice this week. The last three words Of our
list suggest it. If one would have every sem
timent of the sublime and the beautiful en-
kindlod within him, if he would look upon
scene that combines more of grandeur and
more of loneliness, than any other we know,
let him 60 to Mt. Mansfield. There 10 de-
light in standing upon that old, century-boat-
en- summit, which has lifted its rocky but
tress into the neighborhood of the stars, and
looking off upon the immense sea of beauty
below, such is worth lifetime of ordina-
ry emotions. We mean to try this second
phase of the Green Mountains once and twice
and thrice again. This was the song of the
robin that sung in the tree by our window
this morning.