and monotonous that it scarcely arrests
attention. Of odours, a-plenty! Just behind me, so that by turning my
head I can see into their cool green depths, are a number of hemlock
trees, the breath of which is incalculably sweet. All the earth the very
earth itself has a good rich growing odour, pleasant to smell.

These things have been here a thousand years a million years and yet
they are not stale, but are ever fresh, ever serene, ever here to loosen
one's crabbed spirit and make one quietly happy. It seems to me I could
not live if it were not possible often to come thus alone to the woods.

...On later walking I discover that here and there on warm southern
slopes the dog-tooth violet is really in bloom, and worlds of hepatica,
both lavender and white, among the brown leaves. One of the notable
sights of the hillsides at this time of the year is the striped maple,
the long wands rising straight and chaste among thickets of
less-striking young birches and chestnuts, and having a bud of a
delicate pink--a marvel of minute beauty. A little trailing arbutus I
found and renewed my joy with one of the most exquisite odours of all
the spring; Solomon's seal thrusting up vivid green cornucopias from the
lifeless earth, and often near a root or stone the red partridge berries
among their bright leaves. The laurel on the hills is sharply visible,
especially when among deciduous trees, and along the old brown roads are
patches of fresh wintergreen. In a cleft of the hills near the top of
Norwottuck, though the day is warm, I found a huge snowbank--the last
held trench of old winter, the last guerilla of the cold, driven to the
fastnesses of the hills.... I have enjoyed this day without trying.
After the first hour or so of it all the worries dropped away, all the
ambitions, all the twisted thoughts--

It is strange how much thrilling joy there is in the discovery of the
ages-old miracle of returning life in the woods: each green adventurer,
each fragrant joy, each bird-call--and the feel of the soft, warm
sunshine upon one's back after months of winter. On any terms life is
good. The only woe, the only Great Woe, is the woe of never having been
born. Sorrow, yes; failure, yes; weakness, yes the sad loss of dear
friends--yes! But oh, the good God: I still live!

Being alone without feeling alone is one of the great experiences of
life, and he who practises it has acquired an infinitely valuable
possession. People fly to cro