No winter? Not actually. Only the odd cheerless day we had, to have us recalling scenes from the snowy winters past and gone, well pleased with that now passing. And today, another in the March spell of weather which has given a continuation of days quietly beclouded and dampish.

Softly gray they have been as the feathers of remembered geese of a farm, that about this time of year would hide in low strawy nests, treasures of eggs for the children to find — to lift carefully and exclaim over the size, and ever regard them in the light of pure magic.

Softly gray — from the sky above  to the mist – wreathed hills it touched, and the slopes below listened to the wind patiently for a hint of news of first footsteps of spring… that was today.

Jeanie, mistress of the house across the lane, carrying an offering of shell to the fowls in the poultry-house, paused, catching a new voice among the sounds of the morning. She smiled and drew our attention to a dark “passel” of the blackbird family perched on the ridgepole of a piggery.

“And I thought for a moment it was a robin” she commented. “We’ll be hearing them shortly, I’m thinking, if this mild weather continues”, James said. “And its too early yet to have the spring – breakup. Think of the long spell of mud we would have!”

It has already commenced. The little truck has been a homeess [sic] vehicle of late. Now left in the shelter of woodlands at lane’s end again momentarily settled down, just by the hilltop, and it may be before long it will be as Rob’s is at present, set down a mile off by the highway, there to go on any excursions of farm or family it may be called upon to take.

Now the millstream in the valley runs in increased flow, and [illegible]. And along the old mill-road, where in days that are, and likely will be no more, grits passed, and this time of year, logs [illegible] the sawing, we found on a recent stroll with Mack, sprays of pussy willows in fetching springbloom.

“Can you believe it!” he smiled stooping there in the snow to feel the satin of the slivery cat kiss Against a young cheek, “I guess” he nodded “that does it: there goes the winter!” he said.

Now our house-ferns send up bare but graceful green shoots and nothing the growth we fell to wondering today, how the spring flowering bulbs of last Autumn’s planting are faring under the snow. And we made promise that notwithstanding such duties as may come to us, we would make time “ to pick more buttercups” this summer.

We would as in young springs search out again a rare bed of trailing arbutus, and up woodsy trails find first violets and trilliums and the other shy blossoming and sweet that we love.

A gray day of March this? Yes, but from dawn to candle-light and beyond into these stilly night-hours, one only pleasant and good.

– Ellen’s Diary, March 19th, 1958.

Source: islandnewspapers.ca