First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of floures That freshly budded, and new blossomes did beare, In which a thousand birds had built their bowres, That sweetly sung to call forth paramoures: And in his hand a javelin he did beare, And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) A guilt-engraven morion he did weare, That as some did him love, so others did him feare The great operations of Nature during this month seem to be, to dry up the superabundant moisture of February, thereby preventing the roots and seeds from rotting in the earth, and gradually to bring forward the process of evolution in the swelling buds, whilst, at the same time, by the wholesome severity of the chilling blasts, they are kept from a premature disclosure, which would expose their tender contents to injury from the yet unconfirmed season. Shakspeare in one of his beautiful similies says— And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north, Checks all our buds from blowing. This seeming tyranny, however, is to be regarded as the most useful discipline; and those years generally prove most fruitful in which the pleasing appearances of Spring are the latest. The sun having now acquired some power, often reminds us of the genial influence of Spring, though the naked shrubs and trees still give the landscape the comfortless appearance of Winter— “There is a vernal freshness in the air, A breaking in the sky, full of sweet promise That the tardy Spring, capricious as she is, And chary of her favors, will, ere long, Smile on us in her beauty, and call forth From slumber long and deep each living thing. I know it by this warm delicious breeze, 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.