THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR 
“ Savez-vous oil gite Mai , ce joli mois f ” Who knows, 
indeed? But this at least we know, that May, the 
lovely month, has once more come forth of her lair to 
clothe the world in general, and the garden in particular, 
with that radiant wedding-garment they may wear but 
once a year. The delicate mist of pale and tender 
green that April flung over wood and garden, blotted 
with white blossom, and touched with so exquisite a 
purity of tone against the turquoise sky, has flowered 
into a fuller, if a less ethereal, beauty, and all the golden- 
green glory of young leaves is about us. However lavish 
June may prove—and, from the aspect of my budding 
rose-bushes and tufted strawberry plots, I hope for much 
from her bounty—this moment is surely the year’s best. 
The apple-trees are heaped high with their sweet dis¬ 
order of pearl and rose-hued blossom, the lilacs are 
swinging rich tassels of purple and white upon the clear 
sky, and the generous sycamores have unfolded their 
mitred leaf-buds into broad fans of living green. 
The drifting blossom-snow of pear and cherry and 
plum has melted from the grass, and young green is 
now once more their only wear. Slowly the web is 
woven, and every lilac-scented morrow finds us more 
embowered and built about with leaves. In due season, 
time and the sun’s power will turn all this limpid 
chrysoprase to stronger dyes of emerald and jade, less 
delicate alembics for the light, and informed, to be sure, 
with other beauty: and then, why then, the miracle of 
