THE BROOK IN APRIL 



ter of their knowledge, would, I dare say, 

 name these fox sparrows; but even these 

 might have hesitated and forgotten their 

 Hteralness, looking into newborn April's 

 smiling face that blue-misted morning, out 

 trailing the spring with Bose. 



Then, much like the brownies, Bose 

 vanished. He seemed to have lost the 

 trail, nor was my scent keener, though all 

 about were signs. The maple twigs were 

 decorated with rosettes of red and yel- 

 low in honor of her coming. Birch twigs 

 reddened with them, and the woodland 

 that had been gray was fairly blushing 

 with tell-tale color. Over on an open, 

 sandy hillside the cinquefoil buds were 

 beginning to curl upward, and in the 

 heart of violet leaves faint hints of blue 

 made you think of sleepy children just 

 opening a little of one eye at promise of 

 morning. 



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