Though I own up I like our back'ard springs Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things, An' when you most give up, 'ithout more words Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt, But when it doos git stirred, ther' 's no gin-out! Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees, An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,-- Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind. 'Fore long the trees begin to show belief, The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, Then saffern swarms swing off from' all the willers So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands unfold Softer'n a baby's be at three days old Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; he knows Thet arter this ther' 's only blossom-snows So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse, He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. Then seems to come a hitch,--things lag behind, Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind, An' ez, when snow-swelled avers cresh their dams Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams, A leak comes spirtin thru some pin-hole cleft, Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, Then all the waters bow themselves an' come Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam, Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune An gives one leap from April into June Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think, Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud; The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud; Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade; In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clings An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings; All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers, Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try With pins--they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby! But I don't love your cat'logue style,--do you?-- Ez ef to sell off Natur' b y vendoo; One word with blood in 't 's twice ez good ez two: 'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year, Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings, Or, givin' way to't in a mock despair, Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air.