so full of love, of healthy, strong affection, of
interchanged, kind offices, and little glad self-denials, so abounding
in good jokes and riotous laughter, in little pleasures that--looked
back on--seem great; in little wholesome pains that--in retrospect--seem
joys. And, as we walk, the birds

"Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men
To woo them from their beds, still murmuring
That men can sleep while they their matins sing.
Most divine service, whose so early lay
Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day."

The old singers have said many a fine and lovely thing about lusty
spring. From their pages there seems to come a whiff of clean and
healthy perfume from many dead Mays. In sweet and matterful verse they
have sung their praises; but, oh! no singer, old or new--none, at least,
that was but human--none but a God-intoxicated man could tell the
glories of that serenely shining and suave morn.

One so seldom sees the best part of a summer day! Buried in swinish
slumber, with window-curtains heedfully drawn, and shutters closely
fastened, between us and it, we know nothing of the stately pageant
spread outside our doors.

It is wasted; nay, not wasted, for the birds have it. It is so early,
that the gardening-men are not yet come to their work. Every thing is as
wet as though there had been a shower, but there has been none.

Talk of the earth moving round the sun--he himself the while stupidly
stock-still--let _them_ believe it who like; is not he now placidly
sailing through the turquoise sea? Below, the earth is unfolding all her
freshened meadows, bravely pied with rainbow flowers. There is a very
small soft wind, that comes in honeyed puffs and little sighs, that wags
the lilac-heads, and the long droop of the laburnum-blooms. The grass is
so wet--so wet--as we swish through it, every blade a separate green
sparkle. The young daisies give our feet little friendly knocks as we
pass.

All round the old flowering thorn there is a small carpet, milk-white
and rose-red, of strewn petals. Every flower that has a cup, is holding
it brimful of cool dew. Vick is sitting on the top of the stone steps,
her ears pricked, and her little black nose working mysteriously as she
sniffs the morning air.

On the bright gravel walk stands the jackdaw, looking rather a funereal
object in his black suit, on this gaudy-colored day; his gray head very
much on one side, his round, sly eyes turned upward in disho