A SPRING MORNING

I

Spring puts the old pipe to his lips and blows a note or two.  At the sound, little thrills pass across the wintry meadows.  The bushes are dotted with innumerable tiny sparks of green, that will soon set fire to the whole hedgerow; here and there they have gone so far as those little tufts which the children call ‘bread and cheese.’  A gentle change is coming over the grim avenue of the elms yonder.  They won’t relent so far as to admit buds, but there is an unmistakable bloom upon them, like the promise of a smile.  The rooks have known it for some weeks, and already their Jews’ market is in full caw.  The more complaisant chestnut dandles its sticky knobs.  Soon they will be brussels-sprouts, and then they will shake open their fairy umbrellas.  So says a child of my acquaintance.  The water-lilies already poke their green scrolls above the surface of the pond; a few buttercups venture into the meadows, but daisies are still precious as asparagus.  The air is warm as your love’s cheek, golden as canary.  It is all a-clink and a-glitter, it trills and chirps on every hand.  Somewhere close by, but unseen, a young man is whistling at his work; and, putting your ear to the ground, you shall hear how the earth beneath is alive with a million little beating hearts. C’est l’heure exquise.

Presently along the road comes slowly, and at times erratically, a charming procession.  Following the fashion, or even setting it, three weeks since yon old sow budded.  From her side, recalling the Trojan horse, sprang suddenly a little company of black-and-tan piglets, fully legged and snouted for the battle of life.  She is taking them with her to put them to school at a farm two or three miles away.  So I understand her.  They surround her in a compact body, ever moving and poking and squeaking, yet all keeping together.  As they advance slowly, she towering above her tiny bodyguard, one thinks of Gulliver moving through Lilliput; and there is a touch of solemnity in the procession which recalls a mighty Indian idol being carried through the streets, with people thronging about its feet.  How delicately she steps, lest she hurt one of the little limbs!  And, meanwhile, mark the driver—­for though the old pig pretends to ignore any such coercion, as men believe in free-will, yet there is a fate, a driver, to this idyllic domestic company.  But how gentle is he too!  He never lets it be seen that he is driving them.  He carries a little switch, rather, it would appear, for form’s sake; for he seldom does more with it than tickle the gravely striding posteriors of the quaint little people.  He is wise as he is kind, for he knows that he is driving quicksilver.  The least undue coercion, the least sudden start, and they will be off like spilled marbles, in eleven different directions.  Sometimes occasion arises for prompt action:  when the poet of the