APRIL 



THE MOON OF PLANTS 



ever five letters compact into 

 another word as sweet as April ? The 

 very syllables seem to drip with freshening 

 showers ; to glisten with sudden, relenting 

 shafts of sunlight, and to glow and pale with 

 the rainbows which span the drifting, purple 

 clouds. The songs of mating birds are in 

 them ; the scents of the quickening earth ; the 

 taste of spiced buds ; the touch of light breezes ; 

 the sights of the infinite awakenings and un- 

 foldings of the world about us. For every 

 sense its own delights ; for every letter a thou- 

 sand new sensations ; for every day a new 

 heaven and a new earth. 



When April goes through the fields which 

 are hastily donning festal garments in his 

 honour, he pipes on a magic flute which neither 

 young nor old, merry nor sad, grave nor gay 

 can withstand. Feet that have plodded along 

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