Page:Alice Lauder.pdf/143

IT always seems to me that the sweetest time of the year comes when the days and nights are equal—seedtime and harvest. The apple-trees are all out under my windows, and they open their delicate cups like eggshells and show the pink lining inside. The snow is melting from the mountains, and the grass is almost too green on the plains, in contrast to the sombre forests and the dark buttresses of the lower ranges. When I ride up to the little church on the hill now I hear the plaintive vibrating cry of the ewes and lambs thrilling the silent plains with its tremulous symphony. Every flowerbell has a bee, every tree a nest, and the green leaves rustle over it, and the old tree sings and waves and cradles it to rest as patiently as a mother rocks her first baby to sleep. The hyacinths are breaking from their green swaddling bands, and