Spring, bright prophet of God's eternal youth, herald forever
eloquent of heaven's undying joy, has once more wrought its miracle of
resurrection on the vineyards and olive-groves of Tuscany, and touched
with gently-wakening fingers the myrtle and the orange in the gardens
of Florence. The Apennines have put aside their snowy winding-sheet,
and their untroubled faces salute with rosy gleams of promise the new
day, while flowers smile upward to the serene sky amid the grass and
grain fields, and fruit is swelling beneath the blossoms along the
plains of Arno. "The Italian spring," writes Margaret, "is as good as
Paradise. Days come of glorious sunshine and gently-flowing airs, that
expand the heart and uplift the whole nature. The birds are twittering
their first notes of love; the ground is enamelled with anemones,
cowslips, and crocuses; every old wall and ruin puts on its festoon
and garland; and the heavens stoop daily nearer, till the earth is
folded in an embrace of light, and her every pulse beats music."
"This world is indeed a sad place, despite its sunshine, birds, and
crocuses. But I never felt as happy as now, when I always find the
glad eyes of my little boy to welcome me. I feel the tie between him
and me so real and deep-rooted, that even death shall not part us. So
sweet is this unimpassioned love, it knows no dark reactions, it
does not idealize, and cannot be daunted by the faults of its object.
Nothing but a child can take the worst bitterness out of life, and
break the spell of loneliness. I shall not be alone in other worlds,
whenever Eternity may call me."
And now her face is turned homeward. "I am homesick," she had written
years before, "but where is that HOME?"