Sometimes it shakes the hyacinths like a rattle of silver, and spreads the turf above with a litter of coloured toys.
Here the butterflies are born with the first warm breath of the spring.
All the winter they lie hidden in the crevices of the stone, in the carving of little names, and with the first spring day they stand delicately and dry their yellow wings on the little graves.

There are the honeycombs of friendly bees, and the shelters of many a timid earth-born speck of life no bigger than a dewdrop, mysteriously small.
Radiant pin-points of existence have their palaces on the broad blades of the grasses, and in the cellars at their roots works many a humble little slave of the mighty elements.
Yes, the emperors and the ants of Nature's vast economy alike love to be kind to the little graves..