The Somerset reporter., 1898-03-31

The crocus how e'er charming, merely
sets the door Of spring ajar and, full
we'll we know this little attendant is but
household page and has been forsooth
somewhat urged from winter slumber-
ing. Not 80 with our fair hepatica as
in her dress of blue she lightly, brightly,
bids us see that the door is flung wide.
Her own heart must have prompted her
for the skies are harsh and forbidding,
when first she gazes into approaching, aye
lovers eyes. Is it mere illusion, or Ia
the sweet hepatica bit more friendly
than our much loved mayfower lying
listless, though quite awake. From open
field and near by it grows as though it
said 81 could not nearer come to meet
you and keep my wildflower nature. !"
March is but one-third gone when
in New England the hepatica APP
pears, and after the early corners
who deserve our grateful admira-
ton and love, what troops of
blossoms come brightly forward And
how we keep our love for them, the
precious wild flowers, even when near
at hand we are welcomed by garden
friends. All, but could one know what
the child thinks when first he sees fair,
beautiful blossom, how wise one would
be. God pity the poor, who only see
the daisy as it droops and fades on a
city street. But how shall one hope for
those who with the flower beauty all
about them see not ''for their eyes are
hnlAanCff rharo yhar ba
longing for flowers is like the hunger
for books, and these two needs are like
the reaching out after congenial friends.
The winter is upon us and no green leaf
appears in all the land, but spring is
brought to us by that happy magician, a
book. We are not critical in this mood,
only the one who is to hold us enthral-
led must be quite true as he describes
our loved friends, the flowers. Very
quickly we discern the truth or falsity of
the authors claim to acquaintanceship.
But do we hold in our hands the work
of one who learned the flower lore be-
fore he knew twas wisdom we shall not
read in vain. Nor shall an author hide
away from us by various devices, for
who but Oliver Wendall Holmes knows
that particular nook where the odd
little blossom hides. And again and
again we come upon chance lines and
quickly say, no one but Thoreau would
insist on having a forbidding bog where
i'll to set his house. Then we go on
and are charmed beyond measure even
forgetting that we had ever thought
him almost objectionable because of his
hermit nature. Perchance the very
next book we take down will be the
writings of this hermit's friend, and
over and over will we enjoy the charm
ing summer pictures which the quiet
life and happy home inspired the au-
thor to write. But the wonder grows
and the question will not keep back
how could the hermit keep quite unin-
fluenced when he saw the happiness of
one who, though retiring, did not Sc
clude himself from the good world.
Thoreau must have been a much more
social man than at times one finds him,
and, too, by his own admissions. But
he loved nature so much he really had
no time for mere people. One always
has a queer feeling of being out of doors
and far from distracting sounds, and of
course there could have entered no least
bit of foreign element to disturb the
writer as he rapidly turned off these ma
ture sketches. Nature yields not up
her secrets to the mere saunterer and
reverently, Thoreau enquired of her we
must believe.
E. M. SMITH.