At night, the valley was full of sound. But none could hear it whose heart was not full of green boughs. For it was the sound of buds bursting, little green sheaths unrolling, twigs stretching, flowers opening, scent spreading and grass growing.
By day, it was sometimes sunshine and sometimes rain, but always good. And what happened then could be seen by any one who had eyes to see with.
First, the ground in the wood became quite white with anemones. So white did it all become that the Prince of Winter, who was peeping down through a rift in the clouds, thought for a moment that there was snow. He was gladder than he had been since February. But, when he saw his mistake, he stole into the wood one night, for the last time, and bit in two the necks of all the flowers that he could.
But a thousand new ones came for every one that died. And in the midst of the anemones stood the larkspur and the lungwort, which had blue and red flowers, to suit your fancy; the star of Bethlehem, which was a bright golden-yellow, but modest nevertheless; the wood-sorrel, which was so delicate that it withered if you but touched it; the cowslip; and the speedwell, which was small enough, but very blue and proud as Lucifer.
The meadow got itself a brand-new grass carpet, ornamented with yellow patches of buttercups and dandelions. Along the ditches it was bordered with dear little cuckoo-flowers and out towards the river it had a fringe of rushes that grew broader and thicker day by day. Below, from the bottom of the lake, sprang the water-lily’s thick stalks, vying one with the other who should reach the surface first; and the frogs, who had been sitting in the mud and moping all through the winter, crawled out and stretched their hindlegs and swam up and uttered their first “Quack! Quack!” in such a way that you could not have helped feeling touched.
But the crows and the sparrows and the chaffinches, who had spent the winter down in the valley, raised so great a hubbub that it seemed as though they had taken leave of their senses. They ran round the meadow and pecked at the soft ground and nibbled at the grass, though they knew quite well that it would disagree with them. They flapped their wings and shouted, “Hurrah for Spring!” in a way that showed they meant it. The tit was there too and the wren, small as she was. For they had been there all the time, like the others, and fared just as hard.
And the crow simply did not know which leg to stand upon. He started a croaking-match with his old woman, with whom he had lived the year before and all through the winter and with whom, since last February, he had had a great quarrel about a dead stickleback. The sparrow sat down beside his missus, stuck his nose in the air and sang as though he were the nightingale himself. The tit was perfectly delirious with spring. He shut his eyes and told his mate the maddest stories about delicious worms and big, fat flies that flew right down your throat without your having to stir a wing. And Mr. Chaffinch got himself a grand new red shirt-front, which made Mrs. Chaffinch nearly swoon away with admiration. But the wren, whose husband had died of hunger at Christmas, preened and polished her feathers so that she might be taken for the young and lively widow that she was.
And the Prince of Spring laughed and nodded kindly to them:
“You are a smart lot, one and all of you,” he said. “And you have gone through trouble and deserve a happy day. But now I must get hold of my own birds.”
He turned to the South and clapped his hands and sang: