LEAF AND TENDRIL 



flooded with sunlight, and the dry leaves and the leaf- 

 mould emit a pleasant odor. One kneels down or lies 

 down beside a patch of the trailing vine, he brushes 

 away the leaves, he lifts up the blossoming sprays 

 and examines and admires them at leisure; some 

 are white, some are white and pink, a few are deep 

 pink. It is enough to bask there in the sunlight 

 on the ground beside them, drinking in their odor, 

 feasting the eye on their tints and forms, hearing the 

 April breezes sigh and murmur in the pines or hem- 

 locks near you, living in a present fragrant with the 

 memory of other days. Lying there, half dreaming, 

 half observing, if you are not in communion with 

 the very soul of spring, then there is a want of soul 

 in you. You may hear the first swallow twittering 

 from the sky above you, or the first mellow drum of 

 the grouse come up from the woods below or from 

 the ridge opposite. The bee is abroad in the air, 

 finding her first honey in the flower by your side 

 and her first pollen in the pussy-willows by the 

 watercourses below you. The tender, plaintive 

 love-note of the chickadee is heard here and there 

 in the woods. He utters it while busy on the catkins 

 of the poplars, from which he seems to be extracting 

 some kind of food. Hawks are screaming high in 

 the air above the woods; the plow is just tasting 

 the first earth in the rye or com stubble (and it 

 tastes good). The earth looks good, it smells good, 

 it is good. By the creek in the woods you hear the 

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