“Eve,” I shouted--I must needs shout, with the spring rioting in my veins. “Eve, the spring is here!” And Eve laughed--and came out a door at my elbow. “Why do you shout it so, Adam? Have I not known it this last month? For the song sparrows came long since, and the bluebirds, and it is weeks since I saw the first robin. And now the birds are coming fast. Why shout it? As well come in and shout that the sun is shining.” “Truly that would be well done, too,” I answered, “for the sun shines as it has not shone these many months. And a song sparrow does not make a spring,--he comes while it is yet winter, and so do the bluebirds. And I must dig, Eve, or I shall burst.” And, with that, I seized her about the waist and whirled her until we both were dizzy; and, with a kiss, I released her, and she leaned against the door, laughing again. There she leaned until she had got back her breath. “I suppose you will have me to see your digging,” she said then, “and there is no help for it.” But she smiled as she spoke, that I knew she was minded to it as well as I. “Well, then, I will get my things on, and come.” So I had what I wanted, and I betook me to my digging. And soon came Eve, in her coat; for she did no digging, and the air held some faint chill, though the sun shone warm. And, with our digging and our planning, we were busy for some while; but at last I straightened up, and there was Judson, leaning upon his fence and watching us. Now Judson lives next me, on the side where lies my garden, so that he may have a good view of it whenever he will; but never before have I found him watching me. And although he and I have been next door neighbors these many years, never have I exchanged a dozen words with him. Not that I had any fault to find with him--he is an old man now, spending long days in his garden, grubbing the weeds or pottering about--it is a brave weed that will sprout in his garden, but he can always hoe and dig--not that I could find any fault with Judson, but I classed him with those others, with whom I held no communion; and, after all, they, too--well,--I doubt if I care to learn their opinion of me. For Judson was born where he lives--and the others, likewise, for the most part--while I have held my land a scant ten years; and he has held his peace, though he might well think me but an interloper. He has more wisdom than I, and it grows with his years. And again I was glad of my wife, that she had opened my eyes. And, thinking such thoughts as these, I hailed him standing there. “Good morning, Mr. Judson,” I called to him. “It is a fine spring morning.” He did but smile and wave his hand for greeting. And I heard Eve’s voice beside me. “Adam,” she said, and in her voice was wonder at what she had noted, “Mr. Judson is very deaf. Did you not know it?”