I knew it by the geranium at my window. It had put forth two sickly leaves. Two sickly leaves for me, and the world alive with vernal things! Spring, thou Queen of the Twelve! Dainty, dewy Spring—
"Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heaped-up flowers,"
when I write of thee! Thy breath is the amber sunshine, and thy foot-prints are violets! Hide Winter in thy mantle: crown his cold brow with mignionette: hang morning-glories on his icicles: keep him from me forever!
"For winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou—thou makest the sad heart gay!"
"Barry," said I, "the sunshine has taken me by the hand, to lead me into a sweet New-England village. There is my manuscript. Read it, if you can, condemn it, if you will, and tell me what you think of it when I return."
That awful critic put Daisy's Necklace under his arm, and walked away—a victim to friendship, a literary Damon of the Nineteenth Century.