The Manitowoc tribune. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1866-1878, 1877-04-12

where the fields are green earlier than is
usual with us.
How is it possible that out of the
frozen brown earth even the smallest
blossom shoulI rise like a star, or bring
up its little cup of perfume? How mar
Vicious that the colorless and shapeless
clods beneath our feet should be trans
formed into flowers by the magical touch
of spring. No tale of enchantment was
ever half so strange as that which we
read In the unfolding leaves of every
returning May.
There is only one thing more marvel
GUS than this new creation which we be-
hold around us, and that is ourselves,
who are so made that we can enter into
it and enjoy it all. You, little child,
whoever you are, looking out into the most
glorious landscape, can sing for yourself
this song
Great, wide, beautiful world,
With the wonderful water round You curled
And the wonderful grass upon your breast
World you are beautifully drest
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree;
1t walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
You friendly Earth, how far do you go,
With the wheat-elds that nod, and the rivers that
With cities, and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?
All you are great, and small,
tremble to think of you, World, at all.
And yet, when L said my prayers to-day,
A whisper inside seemed to say:
% You more than the Earth though you are such
dot
You can love and think and the Earth cannot,n
Very early in spring comes the blue
bird, that Tennyson calls
The sea-blue bird of March
the bluebird, forerunner of the violet,
which nestles in the grass, and, bird-like,
Curves her throat
just as if she sat and sung;
and of the azure harebell of summer time.
which has always futtering, winged
look, as if it were a shred of the sky,
ready at any moment to take flight up
ward
Oh the birds and flowers are first
cousins to one another! The birds are
blossoms with wings, and the blossoms
sing with the birds-only their music is
too fine for mortal ear to catch.
1t must be that the flowers are glad to
come up out of their underground cells,
Where they together.
All the hard weather,
Dead to the verdi keep house alone,
as good George Herbert says, and look
into human faces again.
Another writer puts it in this pretty
way:
In the showing and the blowing,
In the cruel sleet,
Little flowers begin their grow
Far beneath our feet.
Softly taps the spring, and ehcerly-
Darhngs, are you here?"
Til they answer, :" We nearly,
Nearly ready, dear.
where is Winter, with his showing?
Tell us. Spring." they say.
Then she answers, q He is going,
Going on his way.
Poor old Winter does not love you,
But his time is past;
Soon my birds shall sing above you
Set you free at last
And you remember how
DafTy-down-diiiy had heard underground
The sweet rustiing sound
OF the streams, they burst OF their white white
chains
OF the whistling spring winds, and the PATTERNS
rains
and how, knowing that she was wishe,
Or, and waited for, and needed,
rsrY,, ~, n, rI,- .-r,d
Through the brown mold.
Although the March 5reezes blew keen on her face
Although the white snow lay in many place;
and the rest of Daffy-;lown-dilly's wis
sayings and doinSs, all which are worth,
to be heeded.-Lucy Larcoa, IN 81
Nicholas for -4pra