THE CREST OF SPRING 



the road as if it were not anchored to im- 

 movable roots. Already the sapphire star 

 grass is hiding in the meadows. Gone 

 are the blossoms of the wild strawberry. 

 The canary-colored five-finger vine would 

 lace itself over the world, given but half 

 an opportunity. So would the bramble 

 of the fair white blossom and maroon- 

 bordered leaf. 



Still are restless wings now upon the 

 guarded nest. Some flash along the turned 

 furrow, circle near the eaves, dip sharply 

 to the ripple. Willow fronds are startled 

 by the glinting blue of the kingfisher, 

 scarlet of the tanager. Once more the 

 chimneys of old houses know the flickering 

 swallow. The oriole has come to the 

 orchard again, the wren to the grape 

 arbor. Tiny rabbits, beholding for the 

 first time what white clover can be, twitch 

 their noses in content. Tired children, 

 returning from rifled woodlands with too 

 many posies, drop them in the path, like 

 flower girls intrusted to strew the way of 

 summer. It is more comfortable not to 

 grant flowers the capacity for pain, but we 

 demand, nevertheless, that they enjoy giv- 

 ing pleasure to us, so doubtless they are 



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