The butter-cups were over all the hills,
for children to put under their chins, and pea-blossoms, very much
like lady-slippers, swayed prettily in the wind. Beneath the feet of
the boy and girl--she was a merry, bright-eyed child! how I love her
still!--broke crocuses and violets, and a thousand wild flowers, fresh
and full of fairy beauty. The grass was green and soft, and the birds
rose through the air on fluttering wings, singing and rejoicing, and
the clouds floated over them as only clouds in May can float, quickly,
hopefully, with a dash of changeful April in them--not like those of
August: for the May cloud is a maiden, a child, full of life and joy,
running and playing, and looking playfully back at the winds as they
rustle on--not August-like--a thoughtful ripened beauty, large, lazy,
and contemplative, whose spring of youth has passed, whose summer has
arrived, in all its wealth, and power, and languid splendor. Well,
they wandered--the boy and girl--on the bright May day, pleasantly
across the hills, and along the brook, which ran merrily over the
pebbles as bright as diamonds.
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