14 The Benison of Spring. 



It is a blessing to retain the simple delights of child- 

 hood, to be easily pleased, and it is well to be affected by 

 the greening of the earth, even though we cannot exactly 

 mention the charm or tell why we should be glad. It is 

 no wonder that there have been May-poles, no wonder 

 that the shepherds of old danced about the straws in the 

 field at the feasts of Pales, and no wonder again that my 

 companion and I become joyous in the hopeful days of 

 Spring. 



The poet straightway goes to his garret and commences 

 writing verses. He must, at least, have his outburst of 

 vernal song — it, too, is one of the signs of the season. The 

 red maples are aglow, the pussy willows invite the bees 

 and those big burly flies, with hairy bodies, that fly with 

 ponderous inaccuracy. The marsh marigolds spread their 

 yellow flowers, and the hermit thrush sits silently on the 

 trees, his shadow cast, mayhap, in some dark, leaf-laden pool. 



The skunk-cabbage spathes have long had their heads 

 above the surface, and when I see them I think of Cad- 

 mus and the dragon's teeth. They are spotted, are brown, 

 yellow, red and olive-green, and have long twisted apices 

 sometimes, like the ends of the caps in which fairies are 

 occasionally depicted. Withal they have a mysterious ap- 

 pearance, as if the dragon's teeth were sprouting. I see 

 where they have been dug up, for these queer mythical 

 things are in favor on Fifth avenue. The false hellebore 

 is also ever a surprise as it springs from among the brown 

 dead leaves. It has so early a tropical splendor, and the 

 Spring does not seem old enough to have given birth to 

 such luxuriant vegetation. 



