PROMISE OF MAY 



grew all sun-stricken with the yellow of 

 the spicebush bloom. Bare twigs bore 

 clusters of it everywhere, and its intoxicat- 

 ing odor thrilled all my senses with rich 

 dreams of June. 



So all this day of passing April the sun 

 shone in the placid heart of the little cove 

 with the full fervor of summer. The leop- 

 ard frog throated his dreamy yawn from 

 the bog, and the rich, soft perfume of the 

 spicebush seemed to wrap all the senses in 

 longing that thrilled and disquieted even 

 while it lulled. There is a call to vaga- 

 bondia in the odor of the spicebush, that 

 gipsy of the wilder wood, which finds 

 ready echo in the hearts of us all. If it 

 bloomed the year round there would be no 

 cities. 



While I breathed the witchery to the 

 full there fell from the sky above a gentle 

 call, a single bird note out of the blue, 

 195 



