Spring had come. Despite the many wet and gusty days which April
had thrust in rude challenge upon reluctant May, in the glory of the
triumphant sun which flooded the concave blue of heaven and the myriad
shaded green of earth, the whole world knew to-day, the whole world
proclaimed that spring had come. The yearly miracle had been performed.
The leaves of the maple trees lining the village street unbound from
their winter casings, the violets that lifted brave blue eyes from the
vivid grass carpeting the roadside banks, the cherry and plum blossoms
in the orchards decking the still leafless trees with their pink and
white favours, the timid grain tingeing with green the brown fields that
ran up to the village street on every side--all shouted in chorus that
spring had come. And all the things with new blood running wild in their
veins, the lambs of a few days still wobbly on ridiculous legs skipping
over and upon the huge boulders in farmer Martin's meadow, the birds
thronging the orchard trees, the humming insects rioting in the
genial sun, all of them gave token of strange new impulses calling for
something more than mere living because spring had come.
Upon the topmost tip of the taller of the twin poplars that flanked the
picket gate opening upon the Gwynnes' little garden sat a robin, his
head thrown back to give full throat to the song that was like to burst
his heart, monotonous, unceasing, rapturous. On the door step of the
Gwynnes' house, arrested on the threshold by the robin's song, stood the
Gwynne boy of ten years, his eager face uplifted, himself poised like a
bird for flight.
"Law-r-ence," clear as a bird call came the voice from within.
"Mo-th-er," rang the boy's voice in reply, high, joyous and shrill.