reachedthetop；andhaltedtolookaboutmewell，beforetrustingtobroaddaylight。
ThewinterasIsaidbeforehadbeenaverymildone；
andnowthespringwastowardsothatbankandbushweretouchedwithit。ThevalleyintowhichIgazedwasfairwithearlypromise，havingshelterfromthewindandtakingallthesunshine。Thewillow-bushesoverthestreamhungasiftheywereanglingwithtasseledfloatsofgoldandsilver，burstinglikeabean-pod。Betweenthemcamethewaterlaughing，likeamaidatherowndancing，andspreadwiththatyoungbluewhichneverlivesbeyondtheApril。Andoneitherbank，themeadowruffledasthebreezecameby，openingthroughnewtuft，ofgreendaisy-budorcelandine，orashyglimpsenowandthenofthelove-lornprimrose。
ThoughIamsoblankofwit，orperhapsforthatsamereason，theselittlethingscomeanddwellwithme，andIamhappyaboutthem，andlongfornothingbetter。I
feelwitheverybladeofgrass，asifithadahistory；