Old Town on the River

THE GREEN-CLAD GLORY

I have watched for your coming
  With eager eyes,
O Robin red!
  Yet you showed suprise,
And flung up your head
  With a guilty air,
As if you would speak,
  But did not dare;
Lest your wondrous secret
  Might whisper through
The innocent note of a
  "How d’ye do?"

You set me a-dreaming
  This May-March day,
Though trees are bare
  And the hills are gray.
Your unsung song
  Beats within my breast;
You need not tell,
  For I know the rest,—
There‘s a jubilant,
  Green-clad Glory that waits
With her fairy wand,
  At our Southland gates!

An Old Town Place of Trees

ARCH winds may scurry across hills a n d whoop through hollows, but the Robin, winged Mercury that he is, comes house-hunting betimes, and we, in implicit confidence of the signal, begin to watch for the great transfiguration that he heralds. Then more than at any time else, should you possess a high lookout, from which to keep watch of this slow work of wonder. It is not enough to observe Jittle patches of grass and a tree or two from your parlor window. If you would feast on the evernew beauty, learn a lesson of the birds; hie thee to the hills and build thee a house on stilts. Those favored men who have always made their homes in the high places will perhaps not understand w h a t a revelation a springtime above the trees brings to the unaccustomed. It is as if one had never known the majesty of trees before, no matter what altars of worship he may have built at their feet.

To keep watch above the Old Town on the River as Springtime woos and wins it is a precious experience. Yours is the privilege of discover~ ing the first tinge of green under the frost that sparkles blue and white on the lawns; to you it is given to note the first freshening of color in cottonwood and birch, the delicate reddening of

A Quiet Bayou

maples and elms, Day by day you may see the new life throbbing before you into beauty, the skies warming above you to milder hues, the strings of sparkles on the hillsides that rush to throw themselves into the quickened River, glad dening the heart of school-boy and girl; the River itself, silvery white and flashing as it flows broader and swifter than before; the greening of pastures and fields far and near; the white and pink of orchards in bloom ;—Oh, it is not everywhere that one can see such mass and tumult of beauty, even though the Springtime touches all earth with gladness. Wonderful, balmy dream days,—Nebraska’s best—come and go, the miracle of April passes, and in early May days you will find the Old Town arrayed as Solomon in all his glory might never be. After the winter snows, when it looked haggard and thin as it crouched beneath gaunt branches, right gladsome is the time when the Old Town comes to itself again, a noontide oak-tree for the earth, a restful vision for weary eyes. So it remains through blazing summer hours, while the corn grows tall and stately, till the day of harvest come.