IN SPRING. 



"And now comes March," to quote 

 Dr. Holmes, "blowing his trumpet at the 

 head of the grand procession of the open- 

 ing year, with April following with her 

 green flag and the rest coming in their 

 turn." Well has March been named for 

 the mailed Mars, fierce god of war to 

 whom strife was a favorite element. The 

 cold, northwestern winds breathing tu- 

 mult among the trees, merge gradually 

 into the milder April messengers from 

 the east, coming with whispers to the 

 uplands, of the luxurious robes Madame 

 Nature has in preparation for them. The 

 sunbeams lost for half-a-year, slant their 

 morning rays through my windows, 

 beautiful harbingers are they of sunny 

 skies and cloudless days to come. A thin 

 blue haze overhangs the delicate browns 

 and tender timid masses of green, spread- 

 ing the hills and meadows. There is a 

 daily enrichment of color in the land- 

 scape. The tender shoots put on their 

 graceful foliage again, seeming even 

 more charming than in that they put 

 away last autumn. The snowdrops 

 lift their fragile bells, the tulips glow as 

 they lift their painted cups to catch the 

 dewy fragrance of the 'warm winds, the 

 golden chaliced crocus and the long- 

 stemmed narcissus gleam as gold in the 

 sunlight. The white elm and silver 

 maple are the first trees to accept the 

 challenge of March that Spring has 

 come and they seal their acceptance with 

 flowers not leaves, for the law of the 

 wildwood is that forest trees shall pro- 

 duce flowers before leaves. The gummy 

 buds of the horse-chestnut glisten and 

 glitter in the March sunlight and soon 

 the resinous coats drop off and the leaves 

 — tiny, downy, green babies, done up in 

 woolly blankets — come out. 



"The gray hns-chestnut's leetle hands unfold, 

 Softer'n a baby's be at three days old." 



In my walk this morning, I trod on a 

 carpet of great white petals, fallen from 

 the blossoms of the huge bouquets 

 adorning all the dogwood trees. I drank 

 of the pure freshness in the tonic air and 

 listened to the sweet sighing of the leap- 

 ing trees, so glad to don their gala dress 

 again. Softly-warbled songs greeted me 

 on all sides and from the openings in the 

 clumps of trees by the lane, variously 

 colored plumage flashed in the brilliancy. 



My eye was delighted with a picture 

 made by an old wooden bridge over a 

 merry little stream. A . delicate tracery 

 of dainty, loving vines were clambering 

 all over the old brown-black timbers and 

 gray rocks of the foundation. You could 

 almost see the tendrils grow, in their 

 eager solicitude to cover the ravages of 

 time which winter had so barefacedly 

 exposed. It was even happiness enough 

 to watch this babbling baby river, with 

 its trembling shadows, its tangle of new 

 greenery along its bank and its reflection 

 of the radiant iris, born in the purple, 

 making glad her neighbors, the green 

 rushes, while above them all the bur- 

 nished dragon flies, with steel blue mail 

 and shield, rose and sunk endlessly. 



Late in the afternoon the sky con- 

 tinued a transparent blue. I stood in 

 my doorway and watched it turn to sil- 

 ver. All around me the gentle air of 

 Spring, wafted perfume from her dainty 

 new gown. The faint sounds of the dy- 

 ing day sprinkled the air. The light be- 

 neath the trees grows yellower, the air 

 was full of filmy insects out for their last 

 dance. Verily, 



" — the night shall be filled with music. 

 And the cares that infest the day. 



Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 

 And, as silently steal away." 



Emily F. Bass. 



