The birds and the buds were saying it, and the winds were whispering the
glad news to the almost leafless trees. The early primroses that
snuggled in under the laurels, and the modest blue violets half hidden
among their round leaves, were saying "Spring is coming." And the
bonnie bell-like snowdrops nodded their heads to the passing breeze and
murmured "Spring is coming."
Cock-robin, who sang to us and _at_ us now whenever we came into the
garden, told the tale to the thrush, and the thrush told it to the
blackbird, and the blackbird hurried away to build his nest in the thick
yew hedge; he would not sing, he said, until his work was finished. But
the mad merry thrush sang enough for ten, and mocked every sound he
heard.
The lark, who pretended that he had already built his nest among the
tender-leaved wheat, just beginning to shimmer green over the brown
earth, sang high in air. You could just see him fluttering against a
white cloud, and looking no bigger than the head of a carpet tack. He
sang of nothing but spring--such a long song, such a strong song, such a
wild melodious ringing lilt, that you could not have helped envying him,
nor even sharing some of his joy.
"Oh, skylark! for thy wing!
Thou bird of joy and light,
That I might soar and sing,
At heaven's empyreal height!
With the heathery hills beneath me,
Whence the streams in glory spring,
And the pearly clouds to wreathe me,
Oh, skylark! on thy wing!"
"Spring is coming:" every rippling rill, every sparkling brook, were
singing or saying it.
The hedgerows put forth tiny white-green budlets, the elders and the
honeysuckles expanded early leaves, those on the former looking like
birds' claws, those on the latter like wee olive-green hands.
We saw to-day, in the woods, early butterflies and early bees, and many
a little insect friend creeping gaily over the green moss.
And high aloft, among some gigantic elms, the rooks were cawing lustily,
as they swang on the branches near their nests. We heard a mole
rustling beneath dead leaves, and to our joy we saw a squirrel run up a
branch and sit to bask in a a little streak of sunshine.
"Yes," said Frank, "sure enough spring is coming."
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