WHEN COWSLIPS BLOOM 137 
never faileth.” It hath more, and, seeing the 
Great Poet’s bow abides in strength, we may 
not doubt it will abide always. 
The day’s ride is from Spring to Spring, and 
from broad daylight and sunup was through a 
level land. For three hundred miles not a hill 
turned its round shoulder to the sky. Prairie, 
or where prairie had been, and now the fields 
of wheat were doing their best to look like the 
vanished loveliness of prairie grass. No rivers, 
no lakes, no rills, no hints of hills, but near the 
semblances of swamps or hints of sedate streams 
poplars stood thick with their green rinds like 
a growing olive and, later, as we rushed Spring- 
ward, the faintest cloud of faint green was on 
them, and still farther onward the sturdier green 
through which the stems of the trunks rose 
white through the fresh emerald; on, on toward 
Spring! 
Knee-deep in the Spring shall we be ere the 
day turns to the dark. Speed on! Though in 
sooth the train needs no hortation. Spring runs 
like saps through the engine’s heart, one would 
reckon, the way it runs on triumphantly Spring- 
ward and is plainly restless in stopping even for 
a moment at the stations and tugs at its traces 
and gives the laggard ones scant time to get off 
the train. Springward! 
Now as the afternoon draws on and the sun- 
shine is at deluge of delight, we run amongst 
the lakes of Minnesota—Detroit Lake and others 
