knew there
was Cherokee rose to follow, that the dogwood was in white, and the
year's new mintage of gold dandelions was being coined in the fresh
grass.

There wasn't a bird that wasn't caroling _April!_ at the top of his
voice from the full of his heart; for wasn't the world alive again,
wasn't it love-time and nest-time, wasn't it Spring?

Even to the tired faces of my work-folks that shining morning lent a
light that was hope. Without knowing it, they felt themselves a vital
part of the reborn world, sharers in its joy because they were the
children of the common lot, the common people for whom the world is,
and without whom no world could be. Classes, creeds, nations, gods,
all these pass and are gone; God, and the common people, and the
spring remain.

When I was young I liked as well as another to dwell overmuch upon the
sinfulness of sin, the sorrow of sorrow, the despair of death. Now
that these three terrible teachers have taught me a truer wisdom and a
larger faith, I like better to turn to the glory of hope, the wisdom
of love, and the simple truth that death is just a passing phase of
life. So I sent my workers home that morning rejoicing with the truth,
and was all the happier and hopefuller myself because of it.

Afterwards, when Clelie was giving me my coffee and rolls, the
Butterfly Man came in to breakfast with me, a huge roll of those New
York newspapers which contain what are mistakenly known as Comic
Supplements tucked under his arm.

He said he bought them because they "tasted like New York" which they
do not. Just as Major Cartwright explains his purchase of them by the
shameless assertion that it just tickles him to death "to see what
Godforsaken idjits those Yankees can make of themselves when they
half-way try. Why, suh, one glance at their Sunday newspapers ought to
prove to any right thinkin' man that it's safer an' saner to die in
South Carolina than to live in New York!"

_I_ think the Butterfly Man and Major Cartwright buy those papers
because they think they are _funny_! After they have read and
sniggered, they donate them to Clelie and Daddy January. And presently
Clelie distributes them to a waiting colored countryside, which
wallpapers its houses with them. I have had to counsel the erring and
bolster the faith of the backsliding under the goggle eyes of inhuman
creations whose unholy capers have made futile many a prayer. And yet
the Butterfly Man likes them! Is it not to won