THE LARK 



THE ONRUSH 



OP SPRING 



DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



up into the blue, mounts ever higher and higher and 

 becomes a tiny speck which pours out a rapid torrent 

 of song without a pause. I wonder why these shy 

 retiring birds display such bursts of energy, for the 

 combined effort of ascent and song must be very 

 great, and what stage in evolution is served 

 scorning the tree or sheltering clod from which to 

 serenade his mate, the lark soars aloft until he is lost 

 to her and us, except for song. 



Nothing now will check the onrush of spring with 

 its wealth of flowers and opening buds; the primrose 

 and the daffodil have dressed the copse-wood, and the 

 marsh is clothed with kingcups bold ; by every bank 

 the lesser celandine displays its burnished yellow 

 stars, the newness of its glossy leaves all glistening 

 green. Even the tardy ash has waked, and the black 

 winter resting-buds bursting, reveal within their soft 

 tan brown scales rounded masses of purple-maroon 

 anthers. 



Yes, spring has come and we can watch the birth 

 of life, but know not whence it comes, nor why. And 

 when we have greatly longed for it and counted on 

 its joys, it is only human, I suppose, that there should 



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