A MASQUE OF THE SEASONS 



predominating colors now. Snow-flakes hang 

 furrily from naked branches, and the trees 

 stand sombre among drifted banks of daz- 

 zling brightness. The land is tranced in icy 

 dreams. It is the stillness of death. 



But when the days grow longer and the 

 bitter, wandering winds lose their keen-search- 

 ing qualities, the blossoming of earth's ten- 

 derest season comes. " Spring, with that 

 nameless pathos in the air," is arriving al- 

 ready. The sap in the heart of the hickory 

 and elm has stirred at the recurrence of softer 

 lights and less harsh breezes. Again the 

 roots of the grass unlock, like the fingers of 

 an awakened sleeper, and under the melting 

 snows the spirits of a thousand flowers are 

 yearning for the light. The last year's nests 

 in the hedges have lost their lonely look, for 

 how swiftly shall the living green speed from 

 thorn to thorn and all the land laugh into 

 blossom. The kildee's piercing cry will 

 sound above the pastures, and on the fence- 

 stakes the bluebird will warble, first messenger 

 and herald of March. A myriad of brooks 

 flow tawny in the sunlight. The lake's broad 

 shield shall crack and break and shiver into 



