In the hives
the bees are stirring, in the sun the cats are purring, in the yard the hens
are scratching for the luscious early morning worm; in the schools the boys are
wishing they were up the brooks a-fishing, hating books and states and study
the remainder of the term. In the streams the stock is wading, for the ice and
snow are fading, and the grass is shooting upwards where the sun shines warm
and bright; and the noisy, marshland chorus starts to play again and bore us
with its shrill and piping music through the long and dreary night.
In the trees
the birds are hieing safe retreats from humes espying, pigeons ‘neath the eaves
are cooing to their meek and trusting mates; in the house the lads and lasses
take the sulphur mother passes, and the gloom of yearly cleaning haunts the
high and low estates. In the papers ads are telling of their bitters all
excelling, and the grocer with his seed-box wears a broad and welcome smile,
while that strange, uneasy feeling comes upon a fellow stealing, where he
wishes he could journey to some far and restful isle.
Why this note
of joy and gladness, why this undertone of sadness, why this weary, tired
feeling that is everywhere in sight? Why this lag and why this hustle, why this
sag and why this bustle, why this regular upheaval that has smote us with it
might?
O, the answer
is a tame one, it is every year the same one, it is just a little wordlet, but
it makes the poets sing. It has “spr–” you see sir, and with “i” and “n” and “g”
sir, makes the world sit up and listen for its greenie, grassie spring.
Feb.
11, ‘09
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