November. And then the newsboy comes along the street and sees us
prancing about and we feel sheepish and ashamed and hurry indoors again.

There may still be blizzards and frozen plumbings and tumbles on icy
pavements, but when that morning of annunciation has come to us we know
that winter is truly dead, even though his ghost may walk and gibber
once or twice. The sweet urge of the new season has rippled up through
the oceanic depths of our subconsciousness, and we are aware of the
rising tide. Like Mr. Wordsworth we feel that we are wiser than we know.
(Perhaps we have misquoted that, but let it stand.)

There are other troubles that spring brings us. We are pitifully
ashamed of our ignorance Of nature, and though we try to hide it we keep
getting tripped up. About this time of year inquisitive persons are
always asking us: "Have you heard any song sparrows yet?" or "Are there
any robins out your way?" or "When do the laburnums begin to nest out in
Marathon?" Now we really can't tell these people our true feeling, which
is that we do not believe in peeking in on the privacy of the laburnums
or any other songsters. It seems to us really immodest to keep on spying
on the birds in that way. And as for the bushes and trees, what we want
to know is, How does one ever get to know them? How do you find out
which is an alder and what is an elm? Or a narcissus and a hyacinth,
does any one really know them apart? We think it's all a bluff. And
jonquils. There was a nest of them on our porch, we are told, but we
didn't think it any business of ours to bother them. Let nature alone
and she'll let you alone.

[Illustration]

But there is a pettifogging cult about that says you ought to know these