122 ARBOR DAY 



blood, of the readiest growth; it is the boy-age of the 

 year. The birds sing in chorus in the spring just 

 as children prattle; the brooks run full like the 

 overflow of young hearts; the showers drop easily 

 as young tears flow; and the whole sky is as capri- 

 cious as the mind of a boy. 



Between tears and smiles, the year like the child 

 struggles into the warmth of life. The old year, 

 say what the chronologists will, lingers upon the very 

 lap of spring, and is only fairly gone, when the blos- 

 soms of April have strewn their pall of glory upon 

 his tomb, and the bluebirds have chanted his 

 requiem. 



It always seems to me as if an access of life came 

 with the melting of the winter's snows; and as if 

 every rootlet of grass that lifted its first green blade 

 from the matted debris of the old year's decay bore 

 my spirit upon it, nearer to the largess of Heaven. 



A TOUCH OF NATURE* 



BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 



WHEN first the crocus thrusts its point of gold 

 Up through the still snow-drifted garden mold, 

 And folded green things in dim woods unclose 

 Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes 

 Into my veins and makes me kith and kin 



* By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



