The Weber Literary Journal To Spring By Helen Wilson Spring! Oh, the wild merry urge of her The impetuous surge of her The uncertain merge of her Spring! The mysterious lure of her The love dreams so sure of her The unfailing cure of her Spring! Oh, the sweetness and freshness of new blue above, And the lacy green pattern beneath it all wove Oh, how can you wonder at my passionate love For Spring? The Weber Literary Journal A Spring Fantasy By Laura Eccles Romney I AM radiantly happy, dear Mother Nature, as I write you at this time, for the ground-hog saw his shadow as he crept stealthily out of his hole to see if you were still sleeping. This means, of course, that I will be with you again before many weeks. Oh, I could I shout for pure joy! Do have everything in readiness for me. Tell March wind, that faithful, sturdy, old fellow, to give the woodlands a thorough sweeping. You know he was quite shockingly careless last year, leaving many of the corners so filled with half-decayed leaves and sticks that countless of my tiny flower playmates could scarcely climb through to greet me. And great, kind Mother, don't humor our tender little breezes, and sparkling cooling showers, and soft sunbeams, by letting them over-sleep. Have them begin at once with preparations for my home-coming, because I do not wish to be a day late this time, and there is much to be done. Tell them to kiss, caress, and coax as never before. It will be well for them to go first to that vulgarly named skunk-cabbage. He is very useful with his flaming red trumpet in proclaiming my arrival. On their way, they can instruct those little green hunch-backed "musicians-of-the- marches" to begin to tune up for their evening concerts. And the pussywillows! It takes so little to entice them from their tiny brown shells. I can almost hear them purring now as they peep out to see what it is all about. They had better begin to plume the splashy edges of every sheltered waterfall with maiden-hair I love them in their black lacquered stems and green feathery caps. And when they unfold the swordferns, they must not forget to give them an encouraging slap on the back, and tell them to brace up in fine military fashion. Then there is the dogwood to be brought out in its creamy white robes; and the bursting of millions of leafy buds on every tree. Yes, and those trees must be filled with sweet warm sap if they are to be kept in good humor. Whenever they come to a rotting log, lying by the wayside, it must be clothed in such velvety green moss as will attract the most fastidious grey squirrel or saucy chipmunk. It would be well to sprinkle a few wood lilies and violets at such places, and a blue 7