_This_ chapter of my life is ended, and it has been _such_ a good chapter, so full of love, of healthy, strong affection, of interchanged, kind offices, and little glad self-denials, so abounding in good jokes and riotous laughter, in little pleasures that--looked back on--seem great; in little wholesome pains that--in retrospect--seem joys.

And, as we walk, the birds "Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men To woo them from their beds, still murmuring That men can sleep while they their matins sing.
Most divine service, whose so early lay Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day." The old singers have said many a fine and lovely thing about lusty spring.

From their pages there seems to come a whiff of clean and healthy perfume from many dead Mays.

In sweet and matterful verse they have sung their praises; but, oh! no singer, old or new--none, at least, that was but human--none but a God-intoxicated man could tell the glories of that serenely shining and suave morn.
One so seldom sees the best part of a summer day! Buried in swinish slumber, with window-curtains heedfully drawn, and shutters closely fastened, between us and it, we know nothing of the stately pageant spread outside our doors.
It is wasted; nay, not wasted, for the birds have it.

It is so early, that the gardening-men are not yet come to their work.