12 An April Day Dream 



How often the lively play of spring has 

 been performed on this planet the geologists 

 have never told us, but for a good ten thou- 

 sand years or more there has been no re- 

 vision of the text, and yet there is no lack 

 of novelty. The quips and cranks of the 

 imps that follow in the train of her ethereal 

 mildness are always fresh. Likewise, the 

 loveliness of dewy violets, of golden daffo- 

 dils, and blushing arbutus are as dear to us as 

 they were to our forbears in the infancy of 

 the race. But we are never asked to be con- 

 tent with a flower. An endless array of 

 attractions is spread before us, but, being 

 blind, we cry out that the world is empty. 

 It is not uncommon to find men posing as 

 perfection and criticising that part of the 

 world wherein they happen to be, and a 

 genuine appreciation of nature detefts in 

 such the only blemish of an admirable out- 

 look. To-day, though Winter has not yet 

 quite relaxed his hold, there were abundant 

 violets; and what emerald outsparkles the 

 dewy mosses ? Here, at the foot of an old 

 oak that had sheltered many a passing Indian 

 from the midsummer sun, and perhaps bore 

 yet the scars blazed upon it by the first 



