THE FOUR SEASONS

THE
FOUR SEASONS

BY
CARL EWALD

TRANSLATED BY
ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1913

Copyright, 1913,
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY,
Published, October, 1913

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

The songs in this story have been translated into English verse by my friend Mr. Osman Edwards, who has successfully accomplished the difficult task of retaining not only the rhymes, but also the lilting rhythm of the originals.

A. T. de M.

Chelsea, 30 April, 1913.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

Prologue

Lo, nowadays the earth is white or green, according as Winter rules or Spring. The thrush sings in the grove and the canary in his cage, the smoke rises from the house-top and the church-bell tolls for evensong. The monk walks in the meadow and the poet writes verse.

But once things were different.

Once things were so that, had somebody taken a walk on the earth, nowhere would a dog have run out of a house and barked at him. For there was not upon all the earth a single dog to run out of a house nor a single house for a dog to run out of.

He would not have come upon a tree nor a flower nor a blade of grass. Nor could he have found a drop of water to quench his thirst with.

For there was nobody on the earth—nobody and nothing.

Had there been anybody who wanted to take a walk, he simply could not have done so. For the earth was mere vapour and mist, so that he would have fallen plump through her and plunged straight into space, where the stars float.

And he would not have had much satisfaction from this. For, unless he had been quite round and nice and bright, he would have cut a foolish figure among the stars.

Such was the state of things.

But the earth quite understood that she could not go on like this for ever. She could not have been intended to be never more than smoke. So she pulled herself together and did her best. But she had to go through a terrible amount and it was a hard time for her, which she never forgot and which she bears the marks of to this day.

She had to go through fire and through water too.

For thousands of years, she flew through space like a ball of fire and, when at length she had a stone crust about her, the rain poured down upon her nor stopped until she sailed away like an enormous drop of water.

Meanwhile, the fire in the earth’s interior broke out each moment through the crust, burst it and split it criss-crosswise and flung the pieces higgledy-piggledy to every side.

“My poor, dear little Earth!” said the sun and looked at her kindly.

“Why do you bother about that clot?” asked one of the big stars. “Shine on us, who are worth shining on.”

“The earth is no clot to me,” replied the sun. “She is my child, like yourself and the others. And she is the youngest and therefore nearest to my heart. It is not so very many thousand years ago since she broke loose from me and sallied forth into the universe to tempt fortune single-handed. If only she behaves pluckily and does not lose heart, I shall have pleasure enough in her.”

The earth heard this and held out.

Year by year, the stone crust grew thicker, the water sank gradually into the ground and the land rose to the surface. But, even when the crust became so thick that the fire could not break through it just when and where it pleased, but had to make a regular effort when it wished to create a sensation, even then the earth’s trials were not over.

There was no order about her at all.

For instance, it was just as warm in Greenland as in Italy. Plenty of plants grew on the earth, but they were queer ones: ferns and horse-tails as tall as the tallest trees in the forest nowadays. There were animals too, but they were strange and uncanny creatures which we never meet with now except in the old fairy-tales. There were quadrupeds that were thirty yards long and swam in the water; and there were dragons that flew in the air and looked horrid.

And so it happened that it became ridiculously cold on the greatest part of the earth. Wherever one looked lay ice and snow; and the animals and plants died.

But then the fire broke out again, more violently than ever, and overturned hills and dales. Great new lands rose up out of the sea; and the sea swept its broad waves ruthlessly over the old lands.

No one could conceive what the end would be.

“My poor, dear little Earth!” said the sun.

But how all these things were put in order at last—this you shall read in the fairy-tale of The Four Seasons.

THE
FIRST MEETING

The Four Seasons

CHAPTER I
The First Meeting

By the grace of God, conferred on

Princes four, they share Earth’s burden:

Theirs the glory, hers the guerdon.

It happened one day that two princes came walking over the earth of each in the other’s direction.

One of them came from the North, the other from the South. They were both tall, taller than men, taller than any champion of romance. They carried their heads royally and high and set their feet firmly upon the ground, as if it belonged to them.

The one who came from the North was the elder. He was an old man with a might of white hair and beard; his naked breast was shaggy, shaggy his legs and hands. He looked strong and wild, with cold, stern eyes.

The one who came from the South was young, but no less powerful than the other. His face and hands were burned by the sun, his eyes strong and gentle as the sun. Over his shoulder he wore a purple cloak, round his loins a golden girdle. In the girdle was a wonderful red rose.

When the princes saw each other from afar, they stopped for a moment and then walked quickly on again, as though they longed to meet. But, when they had come a little closer to each other, they both stood still once more. The young one shivered when he met the old one’s glance; and the sweat sprang to the old one’s brow when the young one looked at him.

They stood thus for a time. Then they sat down, each upon a mountain, and gazed at each other and waited for a while in silence.

The young one was the first to speak:

“You are Winter, I presume?” he asked.

The old one nodded:

“I am Winter, the lord of the earth,” he answered.

The young one laughed till the mountains rang:

“Are you really?” said he. “And I am Summer, the lord of the earth.”

They sat again for a while and measured each other with angry glances.

Then Winter said:

“I came out to meet you and talk to you. But I do not like you.”

“I came intending to talk you into your senses,” said Summer. “But I can hardly bear to look at you, you are so grim and ugly.”

“Shall we divide the earth between us?” asked Winter. “You come everywhere with your namby-pamby sunshine and melt my ice and plant your paltry flowers. I retaliate, as you know. I smother your creatures in snow and spoil your pleasure. We are both equally strong: shall we conclude a peace?”

“What would that lead to?” asked Summer, suspiciously.

“Each of us must keep to his own,” replied Winter. “I have my ice-castle in the North, where you can never come, and you have your sun-palace down in the South, where my sway does not reach. As we cannot bear the sight of each other, we had better lay a broad waste belt between our kingdoms.”

“Nothing shall be waste,” said Summer. “Everything shall be green, as far as I am concerned. I like to wander out of my summer-palace all over the earth and I will carry my light and my heat as far into your ice-fields as I can. I know no greater pleasure than to conjure forth a green spot in your snow ... even though it be but for a day.”

“You are conceited, because you are in luck’s way for the moment,” replied Winter. “But you should remember that the times may change. I was the more powerful once and I may become so again. Do not forget that I am born of the eternal, unutterable cold of space.”

“And I am the child of the sun and was powerful before you,” said Summer, proudly.

Winter passed his fingers through his beard; and an avalanche came rushing down the mountain-side.

“Ugh!” said Summer and wrapped himself closer in his purple cloak.

“Would you like to see my might?” asked Winter.

He raised his arms in the air; and, then and there, the mountain on which he sat was quite transformed. A wild, blustering storm roared over it; and the snow swept down from the sky. A brook which had been leaping gaily over the slope turned suddenly to ice; and the waterfall which sang and hummed over the precipice fell silent at once and its water froze into yard-long icicles. When it ceased snowing, the mountain was white from top to foot.

“Now it’s my turn,” said Summer.

He took the rose from his girdle and flung it on the mountain whereon he sat; and forthwith the loveliest roses shot up from the ground. They nodded in the breeze from the point of every rock and filled the valleys with their fragrance and their colours. In every bush sat merry nightingales and sang; and from the flower-stalks heavy dew-drops hung and gleamed in the sun.

“Well?” said Summer.

Winter bent forward and stared hard at the loveliest rose of them all. Then the dew-drop that hung under the flower froze into an icicle. The bird that sat in its branches and sang fell stiff and frozen to the ground; and the rose itself withered and died.

“Well?” said Winter.

But Summer stood up and looked with his gentle eyes at Winter’s mountain, at the place where the snow lay deepest. And, on the spot at which he looked, the snow melted and from out the ground sprang the largest and loveliest Christmas rose that any one could hope to set eyes upon.

In this wise, the two princes could make no way against each other.

The day wore on; evening came and night. The moon shone upon the splendid snow-clad mountain, which gleamed and glittered like diamonds. Across from Summer’s mountain sounded the nightingale’s song; and the scent of the roses filled all the fair space around.

The next morning, just as the sun was rising, two other princes came walking towards the place where Winter and Summer sat glaring at each other.

One of them came from the East, the other from the West. They were shorter in stature than Winter and Summer and not so strong nor yet so awful to look at. But they were big enough even then; and there was no mistaking that they were high lords and mighty men. For they walked the earth freely and proudly and looked around them as though they feared no one and nothing.

The one who came from the East was the younger, a mere stripling without a hair on his chin. His face was soft and round, his mouth was ever smiling and his eyes dreamy and moist. His long hair was bound with a ribbon, like a woman’s. He was clad in green from top to toe. The ribbon round his hair was green, as were the bows to his shoes; and a lute was slung across his shoulder by a broad green ribbon of silk. The newcomer walked as gaily and lightly as though his feet did not touch the ground and, all the time, as he walked, he hummed a tune and plucked at the strings of his lute.

The one who came from the West was much older. His hair and beard were dashed with grey; and there were wrinkles on his forehead. But he was good to look at and he was arrayed in the most splendid attire of them all. His cloak gleamed red and brown and green and yellow; and, as he marched towards the sun, he spread it so that it shone in all its colours. He himself gazed contentedly right into the sun’s radiance, as if he could never have enough of it. In his hand he carried a mighty horn.

Now, when these two had neared the others, they bowed low before them. The one who came from the East bowed lowest before Summer; but the one who came from the West showed Winter the greatest deference.

Thereupon they sat down, just opposite each other, each on his mountain, and so they all four sat for a while, in a circle, and said nothing. Then Winter asked:

“Who may you two be?”

“I am Autumn,” said he who had come from the West.

“I am Spring,” said the other.

Winter looked hard at them and shook his head:

“I don’t know you,” he said.

“I have never heard your names,” said Summer.

“We have come to rule over the earth,” said Spring.

But now Winter grew angry in earnest. He wrapped his head in the most terrible snow-storm that had ever been seen in the land; and his voice sounded like thunder from out of the storm:

“Go away, back to whence you came! We do not know you and we have nothing to say to you. Summer and I are the princes of the earth; and we already are one prince too many. If more come, it will simply mean endless trouble.”

“We have not come to cause trouble, but to make peace,” said Autumn, gently.

“Between Winter and me no peace is possible,” said Summer.

“That is why we want to part you,” said Spring. “We two who have come to-day well know that we are not so powerful as you. We bow respectfully before you, because your might is greater, your sway more firmly established. We do not presume to encroach on your dominions. But we want to come between you and hinder you from laying waste the earth.”

“Yes, if you could do that!” said Summer.

“Yes, then there would be some sense in it,” growled Winter.

“We can,” said Autumn. “We understand you both, because we have something of both of you in us. When you approach each other, one of us two will step in between; and the land where we are shall then be ours.”

“I will never let go my ice-castle in the North!” cried Winter.

“I will suffer no foreign prince in my sun-palace in the South!” cried Summer.

“No more you shall,” said Autumn. “None shall disturb you in the places where you reign in your might. But now listen to me. When you two move over the earth, Spring and I will always come between you and soften the tracks of the one who is going and clear the way for the one who is coming. In this wise, we will reign for a while, each in his own time and each for a fourth part of the year. We will follow after one another in a circle which shall never be broken nor changed. And thus the poor earth will gain peace and order in her affairs.”

When the Prince of Autumn had spoken, they were all silent for a while and looked out before them. Winter and Summer distrusted each other and neither of them would utter the first word. But Spring and Autumn half rose from their seats and bowed before the two mighty ones:

“I will spread the cloth for Summer,” said Spring.

“I will make Winter’s bed,” said Autumn.

“I will release earth and water from their icy fetters and prepare them for your glory, O beauteous Summer,” said Spring.

“I shall bite your heel!” roared Winter.

“And I will make room for your storms and snows, O stern Winter,” said Autumn. “But first I will bring Summer’s produce home.”

“I shall send my last sunbeams after you and give you lovely days,” said Summer.

Again the four princes sat silent and gazed out over the earth.

And again evening came and night. The moon shone upon the snow-clad mountain, Summer’s roses shed their scent, Spring hummed a tune and plucked at the strings of his lute, Autumn’s motley cloak flapped in the wind.

The next morning, Winter rose and stood upon his mountain, all tall and mighty. The other princes did as he did.

“Let it be so then!” said Winter. “For a hundred thousand years it shall be so and no otherwise. When that time is past, we shall meet here again and talk of how things have gone.”

Then the four princes bowed to one another and strode away across the earth.

SPRING

CHAPTER II
Spring

In azure now out of grey mist grew

My own sweet violet, shy and blue,

With eyes of smiling sunshine

And tears of diamond dew.

The Prince of Winter sat on the mountains and gazed upon the valley.

He knew that Spring must soon be here and anxiously looked out for him. But there was nothing to see but snow and snow and yet more snow; and he began to think that young Spring was afraid.

He laughed scornfully and sent his gales howling round the mountain-peaks. Wildly they rushed over the hills, snapped great trees in the wood and broke the ice on the river to pieces. They drove the floes before them, flung them over the meadows and whipped the water into foam.

“There, there!” said Winter. “Softly, my children, softly!”

He bade them go down again; and, grumbling, they crept round behind the mountains.

When night came and the stars twinkled, Winter stared at the river with his cold eyes; and there and then there was ice again upon the water. But the waves broke it into two at once. They leapt and danced and cracked the thin crust each time that it formed over them.

“What’s this?” asked Winter, in surprise.

At that moment, a soft song sounded far down in the valley:

Play up! Play soon!

Keep time! Keep tune!

Ye wavelets, blue and tender!

Winter clutched his great beard and leant forward to listen. Now the song sounded again and louder:

Play up! Play soon!

Keep time! Keep tune!

Ye wavelets, blue and tender!

Keep tune! Keep time!

Burst ice and rime

In equinoctial splendour!

Up sprang Winter and stared, with his hand over his brows.

Down below in the valley stood the Prince of Spring, young and straight, in his green garb, with the lute slung over his shoulder. His long hair flowed in the wind, his face was soft and round, his mouth was ever smiling, his eyes were dreamy and moist.

“You come too soon!” shouted Winter.

But Spring bowed low and replied:

“I come by our appointment.”

“You come too soon!” shouted Winter again. “I am not nearly done. I have a thousand bags full of snow and my gales are just as strong and biting as they were in January.”

“That is your affair, not mine,” said Spring, calmly. “Your time is past now, and my sway is beginning. Withdraw in peace to your mountains.”

Then Winter folded his strong, hairy hands and looked anxiously at Spring:

“Give me a short respite!” he said. “I implore you to grant me a little delay. Give me a month, a week; give me just three poor days.”

Spring did not answer, but looked out over the valley, as though he had not heard, and loosened the green silk ribbon by which he carried his lute.

But the Prince of Winter stamped on the mountains till they shook and clenched his fists in mighty anger:

“Go back to whence you came,” he said, “or I shall turn my snows over you and bury you so deep that you will never find your way out of the valley. I shall let loose my storms till your wretched strains are drowned in their roaring. Your song shall freeze in your throat. Wherever you walk or stand, I shall follow your tracks. Whatever you call forth by day I shall slay by night.”

Spring raised his head and strode through the valley. He plucked harder at the strings of his lute and every tree in the forest bent forward to listen. The earth sighed under the snow, the waves of the river stood still and heard and then joined in the song, as they leapt towards the sea. Winter himself swallowed his anger for a moment and listened to Spring’s song:

In vain thy prayer would soften, in vain thy menace frighten;

Behind the blackest cloud-wrack, the sunbeams laugh and lighten.

It rang through the valley in long, loud, solemn tones; and Echo answered from every hill and mountain.

But Winter shook his clenched fists to the sky and shouted aloud:

“Out, all my mighty storms! Out with you, out! Burst down upon the valley and shatter and destroy all this! Rush over the hills and snap every tree in the forest! Overturn the mountains, if you can, and crush yonder green mountebank beneath them!”

Out rushed the storm; and the snow came. It was awful weather. The trees creaked and crashed and fell, the river overflowed its banks, the foam of the waves spurted right up to the sky, great avalanches of snow poured down the mountain-slope.

But Spring went his way through the valley and sang, in ever fuller and stronger tones:

Let all thy loud winds bluster, let all thy tempest bellow;

Let all thy white, bright snow-birds loose, across the meadow flying!

Behold my foot is on the bridge and all the ice-flowers dying!

Thou knowest thy power in the vale has met its conquering fellow.

“Better than that!” shouted Winter. “Roar, storm; whirl, snow; lash, rain; beat, hail!”

And the storm roared louder; and the snow whirled down. It grew as dark as though the sun, the moon and all the stars had been put out. Great blocks of stone rolled down over the valley; the mountains shook and split. It was as though the end of the world had come.

But high through the murk shone Spring’s green garb; and louder than storm and thunder rang his song. Earth and air and water sang with him: the poorest blade of grass beneath the snow, the crow in the wood, the worm in the mould, each of them joined in the song according to its power. Even the trees that fell in the forest under the onslaught of the storm confessed Spring in the hour of their death:

Thou knowest it were best to yield to save thy might from falling;

Thou knowest I am come to drape the porch of Summer’s palace.

Thy victims, harried on the hills and murdered in the valleys,

Awake to life, to happy life, at my soft song’s recalling.

Then Winter gave in.

The storm flew north over the mountains with a howl; and it stopped snowing. The river returned to its bed. Now and again there was a crash in the forest, when a branch that had been struck by lightning fell to the ground. Otherwise all was still.

And then it began to thaw.

The snow had often sparkled in the sun and rejoiced, but that was a different sun from the one that now stared down upon it. The sun now riding in the sky disliked the snow and the snow disliked the sun.

“What on earth do you want here?” asked the sun and stared with ever-increasing curiosity.

And the snow felt quite awkward and wished itself miles away. It melted up above till great holes came; and it melted down below till it suddenly collapsed and turned to nothing, more or less. Everywhere underneath it, the water ran in rills: through the wood, down the hillside, over the meadow, out in the river, which carried it patiently to the sea. Everywhere stood puddles of water, large and small; they soaked slowly into the ground, as its frozen crust disappeared by degrees. But sometimes they had to wait, for the ground was hard put to it to drink so much at a time.

And, while it thawed, harder and harder, and the coat of snow grew thinner every day, Spring stood on the edge of the wood and bowed to the earth and sang:

My little snowdrop, gentle sprite,

Thy heart was ever brave and bright.

Not once it faltered, pierced with fright,

At Winter’s white wrath bleeding.

Under Spring’s song, a hundred snowdrops burst from the ground and shone forth white and green. They nodded their heavy heads; and Spring nodded to them. But then he went on, till he stopped again, farther away, and sang:

And quick, each tiny crocus, too,

Put on your frocks of daintiest hue,

Frocks yellow, white and dusky-blue,

In full first clusters leading!

The crocuses at once opened their flowers and strutted, short as they were, for they were ever so proud of being among the first. But, while they were still swarming out, already Spring was in a fresh place and sang:

Climb, whitlow-grass, thy willow-mast!

O where art thou? Yet sleeping fast?

Thou wast not wont to enter last:

Up, lower plants preceding!

And all the willow-branches were filled forthwith with the yellow flowers of the whitlow-grass, which nodded gladly to the crocuses and snowdrops. And Spring sang again:

Dear fresh spurge-laurel, briskly grow!

Thou, whose keen lance with fiery glow

Would burst the lap of the cold snow,

Come forth: obey my pleading!

There stood the spurge-laurel, like a bright-red birch-rod ready for use on Ash Wednesday. But Spring pulled the lower branches of the bush aside and bent still more deeply towards the ground and sang more softly than ever:

Thou of all symbols, dearest yet,

My true, my lovely violet!

Soon sun will burn, soon rain will wet:

Be ready, no call needing!

And the violet shot up its broad green leaves from the ground to show Spring that it was ready.

Then the mist floated out over the valley. No one could see where it came from, but it came and remained for many a long day.

They were strange, silent days. Everywhere, everything oozed and bubbled and rustled and seethed in the ground; and there was not a sound besides. Noiselessly, the mist glided over the hills and into the woods and hung heavy dew-drops on every single twig. And the dew-drops dripped and fell from morn till eve and from eve till morn.

So thick was the mist that the river was hidden in it, till one could only hear it flow. And the hills were hidden and the woods, till one saw nothing but the outside trees and even that only as shadows against the damp, grey wall of mist.

But where the mist was thickest there was Spring. And the thicker the mist grew the brighter shone Spring’s green garb. And, all the time that the water oozed and the dew-drops dripped and the river flowed, Spring sang:

Softly slipping,

Little drop, go dripping, dripping!

But up in the mountains lay the Prince of Winter and lurked. He saw how the snow melted and disappeared; he saw the flowers come and could do nothing to prevent it. The snow melted right up in the mountains; and he felt that it would become a bad business indeed if he did not put a stop to it.

So he stole down to the valley in the darkness of the night; and, next morning, there was ice on the puddles and the mist lay beaten down upon the meadow in sparkling hoar-frost.

But, when the young Prince of Spring saw this, he only laughed:

“That’s no use,” he said.

Then he raised his young face to the sky and called:

“Sun! Sun!”

And the sun appeared.

The clouds parted at once; and the sun melted the ice and the hoar-frost. Then he hid again behind the clouds. The mist floated over the hills anew, everything oozed and bubbled and rustled and dripped. The snowdrop and the crocus and the willow-wood blossomed that it was a joy to see; and the violet cautiously stuck its buds above ground.

“Now all is well!” said Spring.

And, as he spoke, a sprightly wind came darting over the hills.

It shook the dew-drops from the boughs of the trees, till they fell to the ground in a splashing rain. Then it fluttered through the old dry grass in the meadow, crested the waves of the river and scattered the mist in no time. Then it set about drying the wet ground and drove the clouds over the mountains. There they remained hanging and hid the angry face of Winter. But, day after day, the sun rode in a bright blue sky; and it grew warm in the valley.

Then the violet burst forth. It hid bashfully among its broad green leaves, but its scent spread wide over the meadow. And Spring plucked at the strings of his lute and sang till the valley rang again:

In azure now out of grey mist grew

My own sweet violet, shy and blue,

With eyes of smiling sunshine

And tears of diamond dew.

And, when Spring had sung that song—and it rang to the top of the mountain, to the bottom of the river, to the very ends of the valley—then everything came on at about the same time and at a pace that can hardly be described.

At night, the valley was full of sound. But none could hear it whose heart was not full of green boughs. For it was the sound of buds bursting, little green sheaths unrolling, twigs stretching, flowers opening, scent spreading and grass growing.

By day, it was sometimes sunshine and sometimes rain, but always good. And what happened then could be seen by any one who had eyes to see with.

First, the ground in the wood became quite white with anemones. So white did it all become that the Prince of Winter, who was peeping down through a rift in the clouds, thought for a moment that there was snow. He was gladder than he had been since February. But, when he saw his mistake, he stole into the wood one night, for the last time, and bit in two the necks of all the flowers that he could.

But a thousand new ones came for every one that died. And in the midst of the anemones stood the larkspur and the lungwort, which had blue and red flowers, to suit your fancy; the star of Bethlehem, which was a bright golden-yellow, but modest nevertheless; the wood-sorrel, which was so delicate that it withered if you but touched it; the cowslip; and the speedwell, which was small enough, but very blue and proud as Lucifer.

The meadow got itself a brand-new grass carpet, ornamented with yellow patches of buttercups and dandelions. Along the ditches it was bordered with dear little cuckoo-flowers and out towards the river it had a fringe of rushes that grew broader and thicker day by day. Below, from the bottom of the lake, sprang the water-lily’s thick stalks, vying one with the other who should reach the surface first; and the frogs, who had been sitting in the mud and moping all through the winter, crawled out and stretched their hindlegs and swam up and uttered their first “Quack! Quack!” in such a way that you could not have helped feeling touched.

But the crows and the sparrows and the chaffinches, who had spent the winter down in the valley, raised so great a hubbub that it seemed as though they had taken leave of their senses. They ran round the meadow and pecked at the soft ground and nibbled at the grass, though they knew quite well that it would disagree with them. They flapped their wings and shouted, “Hurrah for Spring!” in a way that showed they meant it. The tit was there too and the wren, small as she was. For they had been there all the time, like the others, and fared just as hard.

And the crow simply did not know which leg to stand upon. He started a croaking-match with his old woman, with whom he had lived the year before and all through the winter and with whom, since last February, he had had a great quarrel about a dead stickleback. The sparrow sat down beside his missus, stuck his nose in the air and sang as though he were the nightingale himself. The tit was perfectly delirious with spring. He shut his eyes and told his mate the maddest stories about delicious worms and big, fat flies that flew right down your throat without your having to stir a wing. And Mr. Chaffinch got himself a grand new red shirt-front, which made Mrs. Chaffinch nearly swoon away with admiration. But the wren, whose husband had died of hunger at Christmas, preened and polished her feathers so that she might be taken for the young and lively widow that she was.

And the Prince of Spring laughed and nodded kindly to them:

“You are a smart lot, one and all of you,” he said. “And you have gone through trouble and deserve a happy day. But now I must get hold of my own birds.”

He turned to the South and clapped his hands and sang:

Come, sweet lark and siskin small,

Blackcap, do not dally!

Swallow, thrush, come one, come all!

Spring is in the valley.

Up and down fly all day through,

Fear no wintry shadow!

Earth is green and heaven is blue,

Flowers spring in the meadow.

Singing, piping, hasten here!

Come, each tuneful darling!

Come from far and come from near,

Lapwing, stork and starling!

Then the air hummed with the beat of a thousand wings and the army of birds of passage fell like a host upon the valley. Each night the air was vocal with the passing of the birds; and in the morning there was no end to the twittering.

There sat the starling and whistled in his black dress-coat, with all the orders on his breast. The swallow swept through the air; siskin and linnet, nightingale and blackcap hopped about in the copsewood. The reed-warbler struck his trills in the rushes along the river-banks so touchingly that one could weep to hear it, the thrush took the deep notes and the goldfinch the high ones, the cuckoo ventured upon his first call and the lapwing sat on his mound and swaggered. But the stork walked in the meadow and never vouchsafed a smile.

Meanwhile, the whole wood had come out, but the leaves were still small, so that the sun was able to peep down at the anemones. Lilies of the valley distilled their fragrance for dainty nostrils and woodruffs theirs for noses of the humbler sort. The green flowers of the beech dangled from the new thin twigs; cherry and blackthorn were white from top to toe; valerian and star of Bethlehem and lousewort did their best. The shepherd’s pouch, that blossomed the whole year round, was annoyed that no one took any notice of it, but the orchis stood and looked mysterious and uncanny, because it had such strange tubers in the ground.

Far in the beech-thicket, where it was greenest and prettiest, sat a lovesick siskin and courted his sweetheart, who hopped on a twig beside him and looked as if she simply could not understand what he was driving at.

He sang:

If only, love, thou wilt be mine,

If now my singing heard is,

A nest I’ll give thee soft and fine

With four delightful birdies.

Where rows of beech a glade enfold,

We’ll build with toil and trembling;

Our birdies shall have beaks of gold,

Their Daddy much resembling.

To thee I’ll prove both true and kind,

While bonds of love secure thee;

Of flies such multitudes I’ll find

As no words could ensure thee.

At dawn of day I labour will,

The nest shall be thy keeping;

Each night, when sunset seeks the hill,

I’ll serenade thee sleeping.

When he had sung his ditty to the end, he looked hard at her and, as she did not answer him at once, he gave her a sound peck with his beak.

“Don’t do that!” she said.

But, when he ceased pecking at her and raised his wings, as though he meant to fly away, she hastened to sing:

Yes, I will be thy own dear love,

Of bairns we’ll prate together;