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There were white clouds walking in saintly troops over blue mirrors of sea, there were purple mornings, choral with bird-singing, there were golden evenings, with long, eastward shadows.
If you knew, my dear reader, that by pursuing a certain course you could bring upon yourself a drizzling, dreary, north-east rain-storm, and by taking heed to your ways you could secure sunshine, flowers, and bird-singing, you would be very careful, after a while, to keep about you the right atmospheric temperature; and, if going to see the very best friend you had on earth was sure to bring on a fit of rheumatism or tooth-ache, you would soon learn to be very sparing of your visits.
This sylvan perfume, the gayety of the sunshine, the mildness of the breeze that stirred the leaves overhead, and the bird-singing that made itself heard amid the roar of the rapids and the solemn incessant plunge of the cataract, moved their hearts, and made them children with the boy and girl, who stood rapt for a moment and then broke into joyful wonder.
One is also interested to see how spring is going to turn out. A day of sun, of delusive bird-singing, sight of the mellow earth, all these begin to beget confidence. The night, even, has been warm. But what is this in the morning journal, at breakfast? "An area of low pressure is moving from the Tortugas north." You shudder. What is this Low Pressure itself, it?
This sylvan perfume, the gayety of the sunshine, the mildness of the breeze that stirred the leaves overhead, and the bird-singing that made itself heard amid the roar of the rapids and the solemn incessant plunge of the cataract, moved their hearts, and made them children with the boy and girl, who stood rapt for a moment and then broke into joyful wonder.
One is also interested to see how spring is going to turn out. A day of sun, of delusive bird-singing, sight of the mellow earth, all these begin to beget confidence. The night, even, has been warm. But what is this in the morning journal, at breakfast? "An area of low pressure is moving from the Tortugas north." You shudder. What is this Low Pressure itself, it?
This was the announcement that drew me to the New Kent Road on a recent Sunday morning to hear what poor Cockney Keats called the "tender-legged linnets:" "Bird-singing. Also a copper kettle will be sung for on the same day by six pairs of linnets; first pair up at half-past six o'clock in the evening.
Winter held on tenaciously and mercilessly, but it has let go. The great sun is high on his northern journey, and the vegetation, and the bird-singing, and the loud frog- chorus, the tree budding and blowing, are all upon us; and the glorious grass super-best of earth's garniture with its ever-satisfying green. The king-birds have come, and the corn-planter, the scolding bob-o-link.
Winter held on tenaciously and mercilessly, but it has let go. The great sun is high on his northern journey, and the vegetation, and the bird-singing, and the loud frog- chorus, the tree budding and blowing, are all upon us; and the glorious grass super-best of earth's garniture with its ever-satisfying green. The king-birds have come, and the corn-planter, the scolding bob-o-link.
Still she had those thousand pretty movements, those nameless graces of manner, those wavering shades of expression, that irresistibly enchained the eye and the imagination, true Frenchwoman as she was, always in one rainbow shimmer of fancy and feeling, like one of those cloud-spotted April days which give you flowers and rain, sun and shadow, and snatches of bird-singing all at once.
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