Then the grass at your door grows into the color of the sprouting grain,
and the buds upon the lilacs swell and burst. The peaches bloom upon the
wall, and the plums wear bodices of white. The sparkling oriole picks
string for his hammock on the sycamore, and the sparrows twitter in
pairs. The old elms throw down their dingy flowers, and color their
spray with green; and the brooks, where you throw your worm or the
minnow, float down whole fleets of the crimson blossoms of the maple.
Finally the oaks step into the opening quadrille of spring, with grayish
tufts of a modest verdure, which by-and-by will be long and glossy
leaves. The dogwood pitches his broad, white tent in the edge of the
forest; the dandelions lie along the hillocks, like stars in a sky of
green; and the wild cherry, growing in all the hedge-rows, without other
culture than God's, lifts up to Him thankfully its tremulous white
fingers.

Amid all this come the rich rains of spring. The affections of a boy
grow up with tears to water them; and the year blooms with showers. But
the clouds hover over an April sky timidly, like shadows upon innocence.
The showers come gently, and drop daintily to the earth,--with now and
then a glimpse of sunshine to make the drops bright--like so many tears
of joy.

The rain of winter is cold, and it comes in bitter scuds that blind you;
but the rain of April steals upon you coyly, half reluctantly,--yet
lovingly--like the steps of a bride to the Altar.

It does not gather like the storm-clouds of winter, gray and heavy along
the horizon, and creep with subtle and insensible approaches (like age)
to the very zenith; but there are a score of white-winged swimmers