Nature, like a thrifty housewife, is at her Spring cleaning, setting the earth in order; but as she puts down white and green carpets alternately, the earth is by turns wet and dirty, or dry and dusty.
The voices of Spring come to us sad or joyful, even as the heart may be. They freshen unforgotten harmonies, and mute memories too tender to talk. With brush in hand, Spring passes over mountain and meadow, painting it while she weaves the wavy grass, and brightening the tiny spray. She stirs soft breezes, rippling all nature with her restless wing; but, alas! her winds moan over new-made mounds, where mortal love hath shed the unavailing tear.
Unconscious of human weal or woe, the little feet of Spring trip lightly on, turning up the daisies, paddling the cresses, waking the world of flowers to look lovingly on the laughing earth. Her dainty fingers put the fur caps on pussy willows, paint the tiny petals of the arbutus, color the blue azure with soft hues, and sweep with glad tones the lyre terrestrial.
