CHAPTER III 



THE HOPE OF YEARS TO COME 



March 



" Up rose the wild old Winter King 

 And shook his beard of snow : 

 ' I hear the first young hare-bell ring, 



'Tis time for me to go ! 

 Northward over the icy rocks, 

 Northward over the icy sea. 

 My daughter comes with sunny locks, 

 This land's too warm for me !' " 



Going out for a walk on some March morning, w^e 

 find the air soft and warm, the skies of a summer 

 blue, the w^ater rippling in every little runnel. We 

 look about, half expecting to see a bluebird perched 

 upon a fence post, a robin stepping among the 

 stubble. The stems and branches which appeared 

 dry and dead all the winter have now a fresh exhi- 

 bition of life, ^^"e can almost see the saj) creeping 

 up through their vessels and distributing vigor where 

 it goes. 



Looking toward distant trees, their tops seem in a 

 single night to have thickened ; they have a dim, 



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