There stood the spurge-laurel, like a bright-red birch-rod ready for use on Ash Wednesday. But Spring pulled the lower branches of the bush aside and bent still more deeply towards the ground and sang more softly than ever:
Thou of all symbols, dearest yet,
My true, my lovely violet!
Soon sun will burn, soon rain will wet:
Be ready, no call needing!
And the violet shot up its broad green leaves from the ground to show Spring that it was ready.
Then the mist floated out over the valley. No one could see where it came from, but it came and remained for many a long day.
They were strange, silent days. Everywhere, everything oozed and bubbled and rustled and seethed in the ground; and there was not a sound besides. Noiselessly, the mist glided over the hills and into the woods and hung heavy dew-drops on every single twig. And the dew-drops dripped and fell from morn till eve and from eve till morn.
So thick was the mist that the river was hidden in it, till one could only hear it flow. And the hills were hidden and the woods, till one saw nothing but the outside trees and even that only as shadows against the damp, grey wall of mist.