The mountains! In honour of the season which has just clothed them in the richest green, they have this day displayed every one of their varied and interesting charms. At noon, as I lay under the shadow of a tree, watching them “with a look made of all sweet accord,” my face was freshened by a breeze. It appeared to come from the summit of South Peak, and to be the voice of the Catskills I listened, and these were the words which echoed through my ear:
“Of all the seasons, oh, Spring! thou art the most beloved, and to us, always the most welcome. Joy and gladness ever attend thy coming, for we know that the ‘winter is past, the rains are over and gone, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.’ And we know, too, that from thy hands flow unnumbered blessings. Thou softenest the earth, that the husbandman may sow his seed, which shall yield him a thousand fold at the harvest. Thou releasest the rivers from their icy fetters, that the wings of commerce may be unfurled once more. Thou givest food to the cattle upon a thousand hills, that they, in their turn, may furnish man with necessary food, and also assist him in his domestic labours. Thou coverest the earth with a garniture of freshest loveliness, that the senses of man may be gratified, and his thoughts directed to Him who hath created all things, and pronounced them good. And, finally, thou art the hope of the year, and thine admonitions, which are of the future, have a tendency to emancipate the thoughts of man from this world, and the troubles which may surround him here, and fix them upon that clime where an eternal spring abides.” “The voice in my dreaming ear melted away,” and I heard the roaring of the streams as they fretted their way down the rocky steeps.
The streams! Such “trumpets” as they have blown to-day, would, I am afraid, have caused Mr. Wordsworth to exclaim:
“The cataracts—_make a devilish noise up yonder_.”
The fact is, as “all the earth is gay,” and all the springs among the mountains are “giving themselves up to jollity,” the streams are full to overflowing, and rush along with a “vindictive looseness,” because of the burden they have to bear. The falls and cascades, which make such exquisite pictures in the summer months, are now fearful to behold, for, in their anger, every now and then they toss some giant tree into an abyss of foam, which makes one tremble with fear. But after the streams have left the mountains, and are running through the bottom-lands, they still appear to be displeased with something, and at every turn they take, delve into the “bowels of the harmless earth,” making it dangerous for the angler to approach too near, but rendering the haunt of the trout more spacious and commodious than before. The streams are about the only things I cannot praise to-day, and I hope it will not rain for a month to come, if this is the way they intend to act whenever we have a number of delightful showers.