It was a clear, frosty morning, when we started. The sun
shone brightly on snow-covered hills in the neighborhood of Boston, and
burnished the surface of frozen ponds; and the wintry weather kept along
with us while we trundled through Worcester and Springfield, and all
those old, familiar towns, and through the village-cities of Connecticut.
In New York the streets were afloat with liquid mud and slosh. Over New
Jersey there was still a thin covering of snow, with the face of Nature
visible through the rents in her white shroud, though with little or no
symptom of reviving life. But when we reached Philadelphia, the air was
mild and balmy; there was but a patch or two of dingy winter here and
there, and the bare, brown fields about the city were ready to be green.
We had met the Spring half-way, in her slow progress from the South; and
if we kept onward at the same pace, and could get through the Rebel
lines, we should soon come to fresh grass, fruit-blossoms, green peas,
strawberries, and all such delights of early summer.
On our way, we heard many rumors of the war, but saw few signs of it.
The people were staid and decorous, according to their ordinary fashion;
and business seemed about as brisk as usual,--though, I suppose, it was
considerably diverted from its customary channels into warlike ones.
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