The nightingale by yonder brook, sings all day long and through the night. What unwearying power! What an inexhaustible fount of song!
While I write, its song seems to come nearer, as if it knew that I long for it.
I see every opening bud, and wait to see the ferns unfold their leaves. Even the rough maple has a delicate blossom. Everything is blooming or singing. There is music, even in the cackling of the hens. The world is full of infinite variety.
Oh, how delightful to watch for every green leaf, and for the opening of every bud. Nature's greatest charm is that she is never in haste. She can wait, and all we need do is--to wait upon her.
At first, we attempt to note every stage of growth, but we soon find that an impossibility.
It needs but a single rainy day, and all the buds burst. Bright spring is with us once again. Spring produces a sort of mental unrest which seems to move in a course parallel with the impulse at work in nature.