But the open fields to-day have superabounded with pictures to please and instruct the mind. I know not where to begin to describe them. Shall it be at the very threshold of our farm-house? Well, then, only look at those lilac trees in the garden, actually top-heavy with purple and white flowering pyramids. The old farmer has just cut a number of large branches, and given them to his little daughter to carry to her mother, who will distribute them between the mantel-piece, the table, and the fire-place of the family sitting-room. But what ambrosial odour is that which now salutes the senses? It comes not from the variegated corner of the garden, where the tulip, the violet, the hyacinth, the blue bell, and the lily of the valley are vieing to outstrip each other in their attire; nor, from that clover-covered lawn, besprinkled with butter-cups, strawberry blossoms, and honey-suckles; but from the orchard, every one of whose trees are completely covered with snow-white blossoms. And from their numberless petals emanates the murmur of bees, as they are busy extracting the luscious honey.
What an abundance of fruit—of apples, cherries, peaches and pears, do these sweet blossoms promise! But next week there may be a bitter frost; and this is the lesson which my heart learns. Now that I am in the spring-time of life, my hopes, in number and beauty, are like the blossoms of trees, and I know not but they may even on the morrow be withered by the chilly breath of the grave. But let us loiter farther on. The western slope of this gentle hill is equally divided, and of two different shades of green; one is planted with rye, and the other with wheat. The eastern slope of the hill has lately been loosened by the plough, and is of a sombre colour, but to my eye not less pleasing than the green. And this view is enlivened with figures besides—for a farmer and two boys are planting corn, the latter opening the bed with their hoes, and the former dropping in the seed (which he carries in a bag slung at his side), and covering it with his foot. And now, fluttering over their heads is a roguish bob-o-link, scolding about something in their wake; at a respectful distance, and hopping along the ground are a number of robins; and on the nearest fence a meadow-lark and bluebird are “holding on for a bite.” But there is no end to these rural pictures, so I will just take my reader into this neighbouring meadow-pasture, thence into the poultry-yard at home, and conclude my present rhapsody.