The Weber Literary Journal bell and jack-in-the-pulpit, now and again. If there is an abundance of moss, let them emboss the trunks of the oldest and stateliest of our woodland fathers, and drop a bit in the rocky chinks and crevices for trickling runaway streams to creep upon. And the toad-stools! I nearly forgot the toadstools. There must be enough of them to shelter from the storms every tiny elf and gnome of the forest. The wise old owls can tell them how many it will take. Before they leave the woodlands, they must festoon them from one end to the other with wild honeysuckle, sweet pea, cucumber, and blackberry; also with such shrubs as oak brush, wild cherry, and elder. And the rhododendrons must not be slighted. It is delightful to see the grass beneath twinkle with the blue periwinkles, pink lady slippers and yellow dogtooths glinting like so many lanterns. The purple violets, forget-me-nots, lilies-of-the-valley, and daffodils had better be saved for the meadows and grassy slopes of more open country. Still it would not hurt to drop a few here and there to delight the nightingales, though the chick-a-dees never stop talking about this needless extravagance to the hard-headed old woodpeckers. Then over the hills, where they can drink in the sunshine, the larkspurs, monkshood, blue flax, and wild onion must be summoned to swing in their airy grace, among the multitude of grasses. The buttercups and johnny-jump-ups never forget them, for they are the delight of all the children. The meadow larks and bobolinks will give testimony to this. Oh, those butter-cups! They are like the doting grey-haired sagebrush they hide behind, in their fondness to tell the children how much they like butter. And sometimes they are all wrong, and the sagethrasher chuckles as, perched upon the top of a sage, he tells about it in a sparkling little ditty. Through the oak-brush, hang in profusion the wild sweet pea and cucumber. They will help to keep the glossy baldheaded acorns from tumbling to the ground too soon. I really have no sympathy with them, for their ungentlemanliness is appalling they simply will not take off their caps. However, every mother wishes to keep her children with her as long as possible, and for that reason they must be considered. When coming to the crystal stream gurgling over the tumbles of rocks, the willows and wild rose must be brought out in their newborn green to hear its tantalizing roundelay. At this time, the lily-of-the-valley peeps out and jingles her pearly little bells in glee. Her only triumph is that she is able to come before the flush of pink which 8 The Weber Literary Journal brocades the wayward wild rose. The marshy margins of the meadow brooks are lovely powdered with dear little forget-me-nots, studded between with yellow monkey-flowers and trailing buttercups. A little way from here, between the watery green tufts, is the modest violets' hiding place. If they are told all about the dripping catkins of the maples and cottonwoods over the hill, I am sure they will forget their shyness, in their effort to see them. We want enough of these dewy purples to fill the chubby hands of every truant child. Am I tiring you, kind Mother? When I have said a word about the daffodils, I will close, though I know I have not mentioned the whimsical starry crocuses, richly scented hyacinths, magnificently stately tulips, and ever so many more of my flowers; but I am sure you will not let any be slighted. Those daffodils they must be just such a golden host as delighted Words worth, on the grassy slopes of a stream-side, shaded perhaps from the glowing sun by a weeping-willow or gnarled old apple tree who will soon unfold her blushing blossoms. Yes, that reminds me, do have the peach blossoms pinker than pink. And so, if our little showers and breezes and sunbeams do as I have instructed, by the time Summer comes, we will have everything smiling with flowers. Spring Air The air in my throat is like whiffy old wine, Effervesced, bubbling and strong It touches my cheek like an old, old kiss Recalled by an old fashioned song. It is laden with fragances, stirring and dim, The breath of a wild violet The pungent sting of new leaves, like paint, And the smell of fresh earth, all wet. 9