THE MYSTERY OF SPRING.

ome, come, come, little Tiny, Come, little doggie! We Will "interview" all the blossoms Down-dropt from the apple-tree; We'll hie to the grove and question Fresh grasses under the swing, And learn if we can, dear Tiny, Just what is the joy called Spring. Come, come, come, little Tiny; Golden it is, I know: Gold is the air around us, The crocus is gold below; Red as the golden sunset Is robin's breast, on the wing— But, come, come, come, little Tiny, This isn't the half of Spring. Spring's more than beautiful, Tiny; Fragrant it is—for, see, We catch the breath of the violets However hidden they be; And buds o'erhead in the greenwood The sweetest of spices fling— Yet color and sweets together Are still but a part of Spring. Then come, come, come, little Tiny, Let's hear what you have to tell Learned of the years you've scampered Over the hill and dell— What! Only a bark for answer? Now, Tiny, that isn't the thing Will help unravel the riddle Of wonderful, wonderful Spring. Yes, Tiny, there's something better Than form and scent and hue, In the grass with its emerald glory; In the air's cerulean blue; In the glow of the sweet arbutus; In the daisy's perfect mould:— All these are delightful, Tiny, But the secret's still untold. Oh, Tiny, you'll never know it— For the mystery lies in this: Just the fact of such warm uprising From winter's chill abyss, And the joy of our heart's upspringing Whenever the Spring is born, Because it repeats the story Of the blessed Easter-morn!