The clouds parted at once; and the sun melted the ice and the hoar-frost. Then he hid again behind the clouds. The mist floated over the hills anew, everything oozed and bubbled and rustled and dripped. The snowdrop and the crocus and the willow-wood blossomed that it was a joy to see; and the violet cautiously stuck its buds above ground.
“Now all is well!” said Spring.
And, as he spoke, a sprightly wind came darting over the hills.
It shook the dew-drops from the boughs of the trees, till they fell to the ground in a splashing rain. Then it fluttered through the old dry grass in the meadow, crested the waves of the river and scattered the mist in no time. Then it set about drying the wet ground and drove the clouds over the mountains. There they remained hanging and hid the angry face of Winter. But, day after day, the sun rode in a bright blue sky; and it grew warm in the valley.
Then the violet burst forth. It hid bashfully among its broad green leaves, but its scent spread wide over the meadow. And Spring plucked at the strings of his lute and sang till the valley rang again:
In azure now out of grey mist grew
My own sweet violet, shy and blue,
With eyes of smiling sunshine
And tears of diamond dew.
And, when Spring had sung that song—and it rang to the top of the mountain, to the bottom of the river, to the very ends of the valley—then everything came on at about the same time and at a pace that can hardly be described.