A quaint old writer says, “the _moneth_ of March was called by the Saxons _Leneth moneth_, because the days did then first begin in length to exceed the nights. And this _moneth_ being by our ancient fathers so called when they received Christianity, and, consequently, therewith the annual Christian custome of fasting, they called their chief season of fasting the fast of _Lenet_, because of the _Lenet moneth_, whereon most part of this fasting always fell, and hereof it cometh that we now call it Lent.” According to other etymologists, Lenet, or Lent, means Spring; hence, March was literally the Spring month. Spring, most delightful of seasons! how beautifully have thy charms been celebrated in undying song, by bards of old from the very dawn of literature. With what pleasure do we look back on thy worshipers of other days—such as Chaucer, Spenser, Herrick, Ben Jonson, Shakspeare, each speaking of thy beauties out of the fullness of his heart. But in our admiration of those whose memories will ever live in song, let us not forget those of our own day; gratitude, admiration and pride prompt our notice of Bryant, our favorite American poet, who thus beautifully apostrophizes this blustering month: The stormy March is come at last, With wind and cloud and changing skies: I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies. Ah! passing few are those who speak, Wild stormy month, in praise of thee! Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou to northern lands again The glad and glorious sun dost bring; And thou hast joined the gentle train, And wearest the gentle name of Spring. And in thy reign of blast and storm Smiles many a long bright sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the bloom of May. Then sing aloud the gushing rills, And the full springs from frost set free, That brightly leaping down the hills Are just set out to meet the sea. The year’s departing beauty hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat, But in thy sternest frown abides A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft hue of many showers, When the wide bloom on earth that lies Seems of a brighter world than ours. How graphically does the author of the “Fairie Queene” marshal this harbinger of Spring, in the noble march of the Seasons—