Nothing crisps the heart of a gardener with greater fury than a low shadowed, endless winter afternoon, windless, throbbingly cold and soundless, lonelier than the end of love. Hopeless endless, but then he opens the pages of a precocious seed catalog, and then the timeless dream forms again and he is turning the earth, inhaling its unlocking odors as if a book of secrets, hoeing, pushing, copping, making a fine, pouring, friable tilt. One is straight out of an old woodcut, better shoes, perhaps, but equally mired, the tool much the same, the back similarly bent. There is March and a little April in the picture, as yet no clouds, for those will come later about when green begins to show in the furrows and whoever is carving the next woodblock must put in a bird.
Catalogs have been coming for over a month and a half and already bewilder. What to chose among