He who delights in the ever-recurring miracle of the springtime sometimes finds himself looking back, in the midst of midsummer's sweet fulfilment, to recall the days when the world was just putting forth its first shy promises of coming joy. He loves to remember the first downy fluffing of the pussy-willow, the first flash of the bluebird's wing, the first faint blush of the peach tree, the first glimpse of the pale anemone hiding from the April sun.
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