262 A Walk from 



for its little Bluebird angel to warble from the first 

 budding tree top, "It is risen!" They do not come 

 running home with happy eyes, dancing for joy, and 

 shouting through the half-open door, "0, mother, 

 Spring has come ! We've heard the Bluebird ! 

 Hurrah ! Spring has come ! We saw the Phebce 

 on the top of the saw-mill ! " Here Spring makes 

 no sensation ; takes no sudden leap into the seat of 

 Winter, but comes in gently, like the law of primo- 

 geniture or the British Constitution. It is slow and 

 decorous in its movements. It is conservative, treats 

 its predecessor with much deference, and makes no 

 sudden and radical changes in the face of things. It 

 comes in with no Lord Mayor's Day, and blows no* 

 trumpets, and bends no triumphal arches to grace its 

 entree. Few new voices in the tree-tops hail its advent. 

 No choirs of tree-toads fiddle in the fens. No congre- 

 gation of frogs at twilight gather to the green edges 

 of the unfettered pond to sing their Old Hundred, 

 led by venerable Signer Cronker, in his bright, buskin 

 doublet, mounted on a floating stump, and beating 

 time with a bulrush. No Shad-spirits with invisi- 

 ble wings, perform their undulating vespers in the 

 heavens, to let the fishermen know that it is time 

 to look to their nets. Even the hens of the farm- 

 yard cackle with no new tone of hope and aninia- 



