from the spring showers washing the face of the northland. Its
subtle odour was the commingling of myriads of unfolding leaves
and crisp plants, upspringing; its pungent perfume was the pollen
of catkins.

Up in the land of the Limberlost, old Mother Nature, with
strident muttering, had set about her annual house cleaning.
With her efficient broom, the March wind, she was sweeping every
nook and cranny clean. With her scrub-bucket overflowing with
April showers, she was washing the face of all creation, and if
these measures failed to produce cleanliness to her satisfaction,
she gave a final polish with storms of hail. The shining river
was filled to overflowing; breaking up the ice and carrying a
load of refuse, it went rolling to the sea. The ice and snow had
not altogether gone; but the long-pregnant earth was mothering
her children. She cringed at every step, for the ground was
teeming with life. Bug and worm were working to light and
warmth. Thrusting aside the mold and leaves above them, spring
beauties, hepaticas, and violets lifted tender golden-green
heads. The sap was flowing, and leafless trees were covered with
swelling buds. Delicate mosses were creeping over every stick of
decaying timber. The lichens on stone and fence were freshly
painted in unending shades of gray and green. Myriads of flowers
and vines were springing up to cover last year's decaying leaves.

"The beautiful uncut hair of graves" was creeping over meadow,
spreading beside roadways, and blanketing every naked spot.

The Limberlost was waking to life even ahead of the fields and
the river. Through the winter it had been the barest and