We must not stop now to run down that green path into the wood--our one wood, nor to see which shall first enter it with a bound; we must not stop, although we know that a little later in the year there were some rare choice treasures there. A firmament of starry wood anemones; and here and there a bent spike of wild hyacinth, not yet ripened into its deep full blue; and here and there a pale green orchis, coming out of its two ribbed leaves, valued because rarer than its purple brother, that but rarely yet towered with its tall rich spike above the clustering milky flowers. And on one bank that we knew, just two or three roots of primroses, the only roots that grew wild for miles about that part, each tendering to us its crowded offering of sweet faint flowers, and deeper yellow buds imbedded in the crisp, crumpled leaves. And then the lords and ladies: _lord_, handsomest--_lady_, rarest: I could pick and unroll them now. They call to mind a glad, bright little address of a child to the flowers, with which I will conclude these reminiscent wanderings among the old wildflower fields of youth:-- “Oh velvet bee, you’re a dusty fellow, You’ve powdered your legs with gold! Oh brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold! Oh columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! Oh cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell!” Why have I recalled these child remembrances of early Spring days? Why, but to add that those keen delights, those exquisite, though unintellectual and reasonless, appreciations are gone--in this life for ever! Wherefore I say _in this life_, I mean presently to show: suffice it _now_ to say that the Summer and Autumn of human life, dry and dusty, or sorrowful and decaying, have done quite, except for some tender sweet reminiscent hints, with the freshness, and the glee, and the gladness of the old Spring days. “There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem, Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- Turn wheresoe’er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.” These lines of Wordsworth express, very exquisitely, the thought at which I have just been catching. Something goes, as we grow old--a gladness, a suddenness of appreciation of enjoyment is lost; and the dark Summer foliage is not the same with the fresh light green of the young Spring leaves. And when a gush of the old keen relish comes back for a moment, there is regret as well as sweetness in the tears that suddenly dim the eyes. Spring days, sweet Spring days, my quiet heart and rested eye tell me that there is no fear but that I enjoy you still!