changing season in this part of the country, is very little like the delicate snow-drop, or the fragrant violet of other lands. Long before the earliest trees are in bud, or the grass shows the faintest tinge of green, the dark spathe of the skunk-cabbage makes its way in the midst of snow and ice. It is singular that at a moment when the soil generally is frost-bound, any plant should find out that spring is at hand; but toward the close of February, or beginning of March, the skunk-cabbage makes a good guess at the time of the year, and comes up in marshy spots, on the banks of ponds and streams. With us it is almost a winter plant. The dark spathe or sheath is quite handsome, variegated, when young, with purple, light green, and yellow; within it grows the spadix, not unlike a miniature pine-apple in shape and color, and covered with little protuberances, from each of which opens a purple flower. Although a very common plant, many persons familiar with its broad glossy leaves in summer, have never seen the flower, and have no idea how early it blossoms. Its strong, offensive odor is better known; an American botanist has observed, that “ it is exceedingly meritorious of the name it bears;” but this seems too severe, since a harsher thing could not well be said of a plant. In the neighborhood of the village, it has been up these three weeks, but the flowers open slowly.
Saturday, 25th.—High wind from the south this evening; our highest winds are generally from the southward. The withered leaves of last autumn are whirling, and flying over the blighted grass of the lawns, and about the roots of the naked trees—a dance of death, as it were, in honor of winter as he passes away.
Monday, 27th.—A flock of wild pigeons wheeling beautifully over the mountain this afternoon. We have had but few this
