Nature, like a thrifty housewife, is setting the earth in order, and blame her not, that taking up her gray carpets and putting down her green ones, 'tis a little dusty.
The voices of Spring come to us sad or joyful, even as the heart may be; they restore in sweet rhythm unforgotten harmonies, or waken mute memories too tender to touch. Brush in hand, with "breath all odor and cheek all bloom," Spring is passing over mountain and meadow, painting as she weaves the wavy grass and wakens the tiny spray; stirring the soft breeze and rippling all nature with her restless winds. But these very winds, winging gaily over beds of violets, "stealing and giving odor," moan over new made mounds where love hath shed the unavailing tear.
No matter what else droops, the little feet of Spring trip lightly on, turning up the daisies, paddling the cresses, and waking the fairy-peopled world of flowers again to look love on the laughing earth. Her dainty fingers putteth the fur cap on pussy willow, paints the tiny petals of arbutus, and sweeps with glad tones the Lyre of earth.
