Volume 100 — A WILD WELCOME.

February's reign of gloom Out of mind and sight is, Noonday darkness of the tomb, Carbon and bronchitis. Though the air is keen and chill, Cloudy though the skies are, Buoyant breaths our bosoms fill, Free from smart our eyes are. Bursting on the lengthening day Bellows March the Viking, "I have blown the fogs away; Is this to your liking?" Yes, thy voice o'er moor and mead Sets the spirits bounding, Like the Major's chartered steed At the trumpet's sounding. Welcome, roaring moon of dust, Welcome, Spring's reviver; On the race again we must Risk the wonted fiver; Fields are showing brighter green, Early buds are shooting; On the early youth is seen The new season's suiting. Long it is since sparrows shrill With their chirping woke us; There is one with busy bill Worrying a crocus. How they love the flow'r of spring— Never can resist it; What a graceful little thing— Bother, I have miss'd it! Now the wind along the plain Comes with roar and clatter— There, my hat is off again! Let it go—no matter. What am I, to say thee nay In thy rudest phases? Blow my Sunday hat away. Blow my hat to blazes. 'Tis but little we can do For thy bounty's measure— Sacrifice a hat or two? Forty hats, with pleasure.