But we
children were more easily pleased, and we thought April a splendid
month because the snow all went early and left gray, firm, frozen
ground for our rambles and games. As the days slipped by they
grew more gracious; the hillsides began to look as if they were
thinking of mayflowers; the old orchard was washed in a bath of
tingling sunshine and the sap stirred in the big trees; by day the
sky was veiled with delicate cloud drift, fine and filmy as woven
mist; in the evenings a full, low moon looked over the valleys, as
pallid and holy as some aureoled saint; a sound of laughter and
dream was on the wind and the world grew young with the mirth of
April breezes.
"It's so nice to be alive in the spring," said the Story Girl one
twilight as we swung on the boughs of Uncle Stephen's walk.
"It's nice to be alive any time," said Felicity, complacently.
"But it's nicer in the spring," insisted the Story Girl. "When
I'm dead I think I'll FEEL dead all the rest of the year, but when
spring comes I'm sure I'll feel like getting up and being alive
again."
"You do say such queer things," complained Felicity. "You won't
be really dead any time. You'll be in the next world. And I
think it's horrid to talk about people being dead anyhow.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132