APRIL. 77 



and the countless lakes tliat cover the meadows reflect 

 from their mirrored surfaces an image of every cloud that 

 floats above them. The bright-eyed evening star now 

 shines alone. The lowing of cattle is heard only at inter- 

 vals from the farmyards, and the occasional sound of dis- 

 tant bells is borne softly in the hush of day's decline. 

 The birds are silent in the woods, save now and then a 

 solitary one, greeted perhaps by a lingering sunbeam re- 

 flected from a radiant cloud, will sing a few twittering 

 notes of gladness. But nature is not silent. The notes 

 of myriads of little piping musicians rise in a delightfully 

 swelling chorus, from every lake and stream, now louden- 

 ing with an increased multitude of voices, then dying 

 away into a momentary silence. These sounds are the 

 charm of an April evening ; and in my early days, I lis- 

 tened to them with more pleasure than to the sweetest 

 strains of music, as prophetic of the reviving beauties of 

 nature. And now, when the first few piping notes fall 

 upon my ear, my mind is greeted by a vision of dearly 

 remembered joys that crowd vividly upon the memory. 

 These tender recollections, blended with the hopes and 

 anticipations of spring, serve with peculiar force to tran- 

 quillize the mind and render it cheerful and satisfied with 

 the world. 



