21 



THE SEASON OF BUTTERCUPS. 



All is silence — sUence deep ; 

 Hark ! what chanting faint and low ! 

 Leaves and flowers awake from sleep, 

 Murmurs from the blossoms flow. 



Hekr Fkeiligrath. 



Not alone is the spring-time the genesis of life ; it is also the genesis 

 of joy, — the soul's season of promise. Nature and Man come hack 

 again to childhood ; childhood itself has lighter laughter ; infancy a 

 fresher heart. Spring ! oh, dear spring, with thy tender voice and 

 holy tears, how do men hless thee for thy gifts of love ! greener moss, 

 greener grass, blinking sunshine, softer air, daffodils, buttercups, — 



As if the rainbows of the fresh, mild spring 

 Had blossomed where they fell. 



Buttercups, the freshest and the welcomest of all. Buttercups ! 

 splashes from the wheels of the chariot of the sun, that haunt every 

 meadow, and roadside, and sunny bank, and, with the white daisies 

 make the gold and silver of the fields, — a gold and silver more^'precious 

 than the dirt men dig from mines, because appealing to their highest 

 faculties, mingling in the play of their sentiments, and while glitter- 

 ing before the eye, filling the heart with the noblest emotions. 



Hail, beautiful Season of Buttercups ! thrice beautiful in thy timid 

 gentleness, thy confiding innocence, and thy fulness of rich promise ! 

 Welcome, fragrant season of slanting sunbeams, fresh birthtime of 

 yellow flowers ! When the dear children go with hearts full of spring- 

 time, and hopes yet in the unfolding bud, — searching for the snow- 

 flakes and the spangles, the daisies and the buttercups, which they 

 think Heaven has let fall as manna ; then, wearied with prattle, to loiter 

 home, in twos and threes, laden with their flowery spoils, to lie and 

 dream all night of worlds made of flowers, and people with yellow faces 

 and white daisy eyes, and yellow hair, walking upon yellow ground, 

 on which there is not room to tread without crushing the buttercups. 



