The chimney-sweeper has just called!—Miss Burt met him, and told him there would be no harm in his just looking in, to know if he were wanted!
Can April indeed be here? Yes, the blackbird wakes me at six o’clock, and the nightingale sings long after the sun has set.
The hedges are beginning to sprout, and the banks are decked with primroses and celandine.
“Scant along the ridgy land,
The beans their new-born ranks expand;
The fresh-turned soil, with tender blades
Thinly the sprouting barley shades.”
So sings the sweet rural poet, Thomas Warton; of whom I suspect Harry Prout knows as little as of Waller.