The Mystery of Spring by Mrs. Mary B. Dodge


Come, come, come, little Tiny,

Come, little doggie! We

Will "interview" all the blossoms

Down-dropt from the apple-tree;

We'll hie to the grove and question

Fresh grasses under the swing,

And learn if we can, dear Tiny,

Just what is the joy called Spring.

Come, come, come, little Tiny;

Golden it is, I know:

Gold is the air around us,

The crocus is gold below;

Red as the golden sunset

Is robin's breast, on the wing—

But, come, come, come, little Tiny,

This isn't the half of Spring.

Spring's more than beautiful, Tiny;

Fragrant it is—for, see,

We catch the breath of the violets

However hidden they be;

And buds o'erhead in the greenwood

The sweetest of spices fling—

Yet color and sweets together

Are still but a part of Spring.

Then come, come, come, little Tiny,

Let's hear what you have to tell

Learned of the years you've scampered

Over the hill and dell—

What! Only a bark for answer?

Now, Tiny, that isn't the thing

Will help unravel the riddle

Of wonderful, wonderful Spring.

Yes, Tiny, there's something better

Than form and scent and hue,

In the grass with its emerald glory;

In the air's cerulean blue;

In the glow of the sweet arbutus;

In the daisy's perfect mould:—

All these are delightful, Tiny,

But the secret's still untold.

Oh, Tiny, you'll never know it—

For the mystery lies in this:

Just the fact of such warm uprising

From winter's chill abyss,

And the joy of our heart's upspringing

Whenever the Spring is born,

Because it repeats the story

Of the blessed Easter-morn!