Give me odorous at sunrise, a garden of beautiful flowers*** 



WALT WHITMAN. 



MAY 



'"T^HE sparkling light, the joyfulness of awakened day 

 * reveals the loveliness of Springtime now at its zenith. 

 Trees and hedges glitter with their garments of new leaves, 

 and everywhere buds are gathering strength to help to swell 

 the floral blaze. Invigorating is the air in the hours of early 

 morn when walking by ways where apple trees are heavily 

 laden with the blush of their blossoms, lit with the silver 

 " drops of sparkling magical May-dew wine, Heaven's vintage, 

 pressed from grapes grown in the garden of the stars." In 

 rejoicing meadows the buttercups unclose their golden lips to 

 be fed with the sunlight, and to receive the morn-kiss of early 

 bee. Song of bird in tree and hedge, the gentle low of kine 

 and bleat of new-born lamb are the only voices of Springtime 

 morn. Everything seems to partake of the charm of youth ; 

 high above, the tiniest baby-clouds are floating ; and hark ! 

 when dawn has grown to morn, the voices of children in the 

 garden, whose laughter harmonises so perfectly with Nature's 

 voices in May. For Spring is the song for childhood ; it is 

 simple to learn, it is easy to sing, a song laden with silvery 

 vowels ; what a contrast to the song of age crooned in the 

 misty wintry shadows, that is so strange a story, so hard 

 to sing, so difficult to modulate with its cumbersome con- 

 sonants ! 



A few hours after dawn about eight o'clock every bird- 

 voice is hushed awhile ; blackbird and thrush leave branch to 



