Voices of Spring
Mine is an obstinate penchant for nature in all her moods and forms, a satisfaction with whatever is hers. And what shall this be named, a weakness, or a — virtue?
In spring, nature like a thrifty housewife sets the earth in order; and between taking up the white carpets and putting down the green ones, her various apartments are dismally dirty.
Spring is my sweetheart, whose voices are sad or glad, even as the heart may be; restoring in memory the sweet rhythm of unforgotten harmonies, or touching tenderly its tearful tones.
Spring passes over mountain and meadow, waking up the world; weaving the wavy grass, nursing the timid spray, stirring the soft breeze; rippling all nature in ceaseless flow, with “breath all odor and cheek all bloom.” Whatever else droops, spring is gay: her little feet trip lightly on, turning up the daisies, paddling the watercresses, rocking the oriole's cradle; challenging the sedentary shadows to activity, and the streams to race for the sea. Her dainty fingers put the fur cap on pussy-willow, paint in pink the petals of arbutus, and sweep in soft strains her Orphean lyre. “The voice of the turtle is heard in our land.” The snow-bird that tarried through the storm, now chirps to the breeze; the cuckoo sounds her invisible lute, calling the feathered tribe back to their summer homes. Old robin, though stricken to the heart with winter's snow, prophesies of fair earth and sunny skies. The brooklet sings melting murmurs to merry
