Chapter 109 Spring - 5

As spring approached, red squirrels came under my house in pairs, and when I sat quietly reading or writing, they were right under my feet, making the strangest cooing noises and hissing Short calls, and if I kick a few feet, the calls will be louder, as if their crazy mischief has surpassed the realm of fear and ignored the prohibition of human beings.Don't--crack-crack-crack-crack.They didn't listen to my rebuttals. They didn't think I was aggressive, but they cursed me loudly, leaving me helpless. First sparrows of spring!The year began again amidst never so young hopes!At first a faint silvery chirp was heard across a part of the still bare, wet field, from bluebirds, hedge sparrows, and red-winged thrushes, as if the last snowflakes of winter were jingling down!At such a time, what are history, chronicles, legends, all the words of revelation!The brook sang hymns and tetralogy to spring.Falcons on the swamp are flying low over the grass, already looking for the fragile creatures that have just woken up.In all the valleys the tick-tick of melting snow is heard, and the ice on the lakes is melting rapidly.The grass is burning on the mountainside like a spring fire,—"et primitus oritur herba imbribus primoribus evo-cata,"—as if the earth sends an inner heat to welcome the return of the sun; and the color of the flame is not yellow , is green, - a symbol of eternal youth, the blade of grass, like a long green ribbon, flows out of the grass and flows into summer.Yes, it was held back by frost and snow, but it was pushing forward again soon, lifting up the long stems of last year's dry grass, and letting new life rise from below.It is like water from a small spring gurgling out of the ground.It is almost one with the brook, for the brook has dried up in those long days of June, and these blades of grass have made its way, from which the cattle and sheep have drank for ages from the eternal blue stream. , when the time comes, the mowers mow them down to supply the needs of the winter.Even if our human life is extinct, the root cannot be extinct, and green grass leaves can still grow on that root, as for eternity.

Walden Pond melted rapidly.To the north and to the west there is a canal two poles wide, which flows wider from east to west.A large portion of the ice has cracked away from its main body.I heard a hedge-sparrow singing in the bushes on the bank,--Ollie, Ollie, Ollie,--Kip, Kip, Kip, Chuck, Cher,-Zoo, Wes, Wee Wes, Weiss.It is also helping to break up the ice. How chic is the huge curve on the edge of the ice, which somewhat echoes the shore of the lake, but it is much more regular!It was surprisingly hard, for there had been a short period of severe cold recently, and the ice was rippled like a palace floor.But the wind blew eastward in vain across its opaque surface, until it ruffled the distant living ripples.It was radiant to see the ribbons of water glistening in the sun, and the face of the lake was full of joy and youth, as if it spoke of the joy of swimming in the fish, and the joy of the fine sand on its shores.This is the brilliance on the scales of silver cichlids, and the whole lake seems to be an active fish.Such is the contrast between winter and spring.Walden came back from the dead.But as I have already said, the lake opened and frozen more leisurely this spring.

The transition from blizzard and winter to clear and soft weather, from dark and sluggish hours to light and elastic ones, is a monumental transition that everything proclaims.In the end it seemed out of the blue.Suddenly, an influx of light filled my house, although it was almost dusk, and the sky was still covered with gray winter clouds, and drops of water after rain and snow were still falling from the eaves.I looked out the window, and lo!Where yesterday was gray and icy, the transparent body of the lake stretched across it, already calm and full of hope like a summer evening, reflecting a summer sunset sky in its bosom, although the sky above I can't see such a cloud, but it seems to have been connected with a distant sky.I heard a robin calling in the distance, and I thought I hadn't heard it for thousands of years.Although its music is thousands of years from now, I will never forget it—it is still as sweet and powerful as the songs of the past.O robin at dusk, under the New England summer sky!If only I could find the branch on which he perches!I mean him; I mean the branch.At least it's not Turdus migrato-rius.The pitch pines and scrub oaks around my house, long downcast, suddenly regained some of their character, and looked brighter, greener, taller, and more alive, as if they had been effectively washed and revived by the rain. same.I know it won't rain again.Look at any branch in the forest, yes, look at your pile of fuel, and you can tell if winter is over.It was getting dark, and I was startled by the reflection of the flying geese, flying low through the forest, like tired travelers, coming from the lake in the south, arriving too late, and finally complaining and comforting each other .Standing at the door, I could hear the sound of their wings flapping; and when I approached my house, I suddenly found my lights, and the chattering waves suddenly quieted down, and they circled away and stopped on the lake.So I went back into the house, closed the door, and spent my first spring night in the forest.