THE MYSTERY OF SPRING.
ome, come, come, little Tiny,
Come, little doggie! We
Will "interview" all the blossoms
Down-dropt from the apple-tree;
We'll hie to the grove and question
Fresh grasses under the swing,
And learn if we can, dear Tiny,
Just what is the joy called Spring.
Come, come, come, little Tiny;
Golden it is, I know:
Gold is the air around us,
The crocus is gold below;
Red as the golden sunset
Is robin's breast, on the wing—
But, come, come, come, little Tiny,
This isn't the half of Spring.
Spring's more than beautiful, Tiny;
Fragrant it is—for, see,
We catch the breath of the violets
However hidden they be;
And buds o'erhead in the greenwood
The sweetest of spices fling—
Yet color and sweets together
Are still but a part of Spring.
Then come, come, come, little Tiny,
Let's hear what you have to tell
Learned of the years you've scampered
Over the hill and dell—
What! Only a bark for answer?
Now, Tiny, that isn't the thing
Will help unravel the riddle
Of wonderful, wonderful Spring.
Yes, Tiny, there's something better
Than form and scent and hue,
In the grass with its emerald glory;
In the air's cerulean blue;
In the glow of the sweet arbutus;
In the daisy's perfect mould:—
All these are delightful, Tiny,
But the secret's still untold.
Oh, Tiny, you'll never know it—
For the mystery lies in this:
Just the fact of such warm uprising
From winter's chill abyss,
And the joy of our heart's upspringing
Whenever the Spring is born,
Because it repeats the story
Of the blessed Easter-morn!
MRS. MARY B. DODGE.
