The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1899-03-26
WHEN BROOKS RUN FULL.

In gusty March, when mad winds blow
and brooks full, he who explores the
countryside TO meet pussy willow and the
other catxins on their native heath must
needs wade deep or traverse the narrow
path along the fence at the very edge of
the hill Beyond the barbed wire fence.
which has never yet been made barbed
enough to hold out primitive, modern man
from his rightful estate in field and forest,
the little earth-colored path climbs to the
hilltop's brink, thence to wind and curvet
onward in the fascinating way known only
to little woodland paths Here it shaves the
fence rails. there it skips in and out of a
ravine or dips aside into the field, as pleased
the wandering fancy of the capricious graz
ing cow, who was probably original sur
veyor of the roadway. Although the low
lands of the thicket are flooded to a vast
marsh through which the mad, yellow
brook sings and rushes toward the river,
and in which broad pools stand, beauteously
rejecting bush and tree, March gales have
so swept and pounded the upland path that
a firm foothold is made for man and beast.
Part of the way an old-fashjoned rail fierce
makes travel joyful, its rustic, rough-hewn
bars betrayed and belchened by the ex-
periences of many winters and summers
In the eye of fact as well as of fancy, the
barbed wire fence is hdeOus and hateful
as the paste diamond the red cotton
plush photograph album. 1t has no true
voice in the harmony of nature; and when
machine-made man has obllJerated from the
country landscape the inspiring Zigzag of
the Old rail fence the world viii be poorer,
the music of life will be diminished, one note
of true poetry will be gone forever.
When nature prepares for the opening of
her vernal pageant, be ii noticed, her great
effects are primarily arranged-the broad
Gh
first and the minute details of beauty
worked in afterward. When brooks run
while vast gusts of wind fan the skies TO
purest. keenest, silver-edged azure. Sun
shine receives only minor consideration, but
huge masses of violet and gray clouds are
marshaled to hold themselves in readiness
for the April downpour. Along the paths
edge then the firstlings OF the year, are
slowly up this way" Revel in the retarded
gift, however: drink deep of the clean.
sweet, winey air. yet biting with Februarys
frost, for never again in any year, mayhap,
shall this rare days parallel be with you.
Even tomorrow, after this cold, gray day,
the signal may be given, the hand of the
vernal clock set onward and the whole
sweet world of forgotten things" a flower
bediZened earth shall be upon
AS yet spring has merely tried her brushes
in the fence corners and other sheltered
places; here q bit of pale moss Frightening
a black tree trunk or slim, fragile leaf or
yarrow under thorn bush; there a fresh
ened lichen on q fence rail or thiStle'S wee
rOSette near the brooks edge. InOugh the
viOlet's green bed is made, its buds are not
yet showing, and the tiny scroll of the
earliest fern is found only by ruthless polk
ing under the damp carpet of last autumns
dead leaves. The outlying fields, which run
off yOnder into the blue, blue hills, are still
brown, with here and there vivid be-
jeweled green square, over which the wren
flies, singing OF wheat.
In this woodland paradise we call "the
thiCket' little life is now aStIr; beside our
selves only the snails are out. and several
amiable. Eliminating cows 1t is 1.-The tassel
time of spring. but pussy willow is faith
| less to the trySt we kept with her this
day last year. and except for the alder cat
kins would go hence empty-handed. AS
the wind whips homewaTd the snow flies,
but across the cold wet field floats
arabesque of silver song, the whitethroats
far-Off. wstful lingering strain. April is
on the threshold; from the bare treetOps
the cardinal and the robin have Justify prom
Used spring, but the song OF the white
throat is an influence apart. AS those soft.
sweet. exquisite notes melt upon the air
and die into the of memory the listen
er's soul falls into wiStful forgetfulness of
earthly things; it takes what is nor pines
for what is not" and muses. on angels in
the happy state" EMMA CARLETON.
New Albany March %