124 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS 



But fearful of our motives, off he flies, 



And stoops upon the grub the spade has thrown 



Loose from its den beside the wounded root. 



Days pass along. The pattering shower falls down, 



And then the warming sunshine. Tiny clefts 



Tell that the seed has turned itself and swift 



Is pushing up its stem. The fruit-trees now 



Have broken into blossom ; and the grape 



Casting aside, in peels, its shrivelled skin, 



Shows its soft furzy leaf of delicate pink ; 



And the thick midge-like blossoms round diffuse 



A strong delicious fragrance. Soon along 



The trellis stretch the tendrils, sharply pronged, 



Clinging tenacious with their winding rings 



And sending on the stem. A sheet of bloom 



Then decks the garden, till the summer glows 



Forming the perfect fruit. In showery nights 



The firefly glances with its pendent lamp 



Of greenish gold. Each dark nook owns a voice : 



While perfume floats on every wave of air. 



And as we reap the rich fruits of our toil 



We bless the God who rains His gifts on us, 



Making the earth its treasures rich to yield 



With slight and fitful care. Our hearts should be 



Ever but harps to send unceasing hymns 



Of thankful praise to One who fills all space, 



And yet looks down with smiles on lowly Man. 



ALFBED B. STREET. 



