IN SPRINGTIDE

This is the hour, the day,
The time, the season sweet.
Quick! listen, laggard feet,
Brook not delay:

Love flies, youth pauses, Maytide will not last;
Forth, forth while yet 'tis time, before the Spring is past.

The Summer's glories shine
From all her garden ground,
With lilies prankt around,
And roses fine;

But the pink blooms or white upon the bursting trees,
Primrose and violet sweet, what charm has June like these?

This is the time of song.

From many a joyous throat,
Mute all the dull year long,

Soars love's clear note:

Summer is dumb, and faint with dust and heat;
This is the mirthful time when every sound is sweet.

Fair day of larger light,

Life's own appointed hour,

Young souls bud forth in white-
The world's a-flower.

Thrill, youthful heart; soar upward, limpid voice:
Blossoming time is come-rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!

LEWIS MORRIS.

APRIL FANTASIE

The fresh, bright bloom of the daffodils
Makes gold in the garden bed,
Gold that is like the sunbeams
Loitering overhead.
Bloom, bloom

The budding twigs of the sweetbrier
Stir as with hope and bliss

Under the sun's soft glances,
Under the wind's sly kiss.
Swing, swing

In the sun and the wind,-
April hath a fickle mind.

May, she calls to her little ones,
Her flowers hiding away,

"Never put off till to-morrow
What you may do to-day,
Come, come

Through the sun and the wind,

April hath a fickle mind."

ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON CORTISSoz.

THE COMING OF SPRING

There's something in the air

That's new and sweet and rare

A scent of summer things,

A whir as if of wings.

There's something, too, that's new
In the color of the blue
That's in the morning sky,
Before the sun is high.

And though on plain and hill
'Tis winter, winter still,
There's something seems to say
That winter's had its day.
And all this changing tint,
This whispering stir and hint
Of bud and bloom and wing,
Is the coming of the spring.
And to-morrow or to-day
The brooks will break away
From their icy, frozen sleep,
And run, and laugh, and leap.
And the next thing, in the woods,
The catkins in their hoods
Of fur and silk will stand,
A sturdy little band.

And the tassels soft and fine
Of the hazel will entwine,
And the elder branches show
Their buds against the snow.
So, silently but swift,
Above the wintry drift,
The long days gain and gain,
Until on hill and plain,-

Once more, and yet once more,
Returning as before,

We see the bloom of birth

Make young again the earth.

NORA PERRY.

A SPRING SONG

Old Mother Earth woke up from her sleep,
And found she was cold and bare;

The winter was over, the spring was near,
And she had not a dress to wear.
"Alas!" she sighed, with great dismay,
“Oh, where shall I get my clothes?
There's not a place to buy a suit,

And a dressmaker no one knows."

"I'll make you a dress," said the springing grass,

Just looking above the ground,

"A dress of green of the loveliest sheen,

To cover you all around."

"And we," said the dandelions gay,

"Will dot it with yellow bright.'

"I'll make it a fringe," said forget-me-not,

"Of blue, very soft and light."

"We'll embroider the front," said the violets,

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With a lovely purple hue."

"And we," said the roses, "will make you a crown

Of red, jewelled over with dew."

"And we'll be your gems," said a voice from the shade, Where the ladies' ear-drops live

"Orange is the color for any queen,

And the best we have to give.'

Old Mother Earth was thankful and glad,

As she put on her dress so gay;

And that is the reason, my little ones,

She is looking so lovely to-day.

UNKNOWN.

THE FIRST SWALLOW

The gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding, and, beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath, of May.

The welcome guest of settled spring,
The swallow, too, has come at last;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hailed her as she passed.

Come, summer visitant, attach

To my reed roof your nest of clay,
And let my ear your music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch
At the gray dawn of day.

CHARLES SMITH.

A SONG OF WAKING

The maple buds are red, are red,
The robin's call is sweet;

The blue sky floats above thy head,
The violets kiss thy feet.
The sun paints emeralds on the spray,
And sapphires on the lake;

A million wings unfold to-day,
A million flowers awake.