Yet still, on every side we trace the hand Of Winter in the land, Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season's dawn; Or where, like those strange [v]semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, The brown of Autumn corn. [Illustration: The Woods in Spring] As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. In gardens, you may note, amid the dearth, The crocus breaking earth; And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, The violet in its screen. But many gleams and showers need must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored South Shall kiss the rose's mouth. Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn, In the sweet airs of morn; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times, a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart, A blue-eyed [v]Dryad, stepping forth, should say, "Behold me! I am May!" HENRY TIMROD. AMONG THE CLIFFS It was a critical moment. There was a stir other than that of the wind among the pine needles and dry leaves that carpeted the ground. The wary wild turkeys lifted their long necks with that peculiar cry of half-doubting surprise so familiar to a sportsman, then all was still for an instant. The world was steeped in the noontide sunlight, the mountain air tasted of the fresh [v]sylvan fragrance that pervaded the forest, the foliage blamed with the red and gold of autumn, the distant [v]Chilhowee heights were delicately blue. That instant's doubt sealed the doom of one of the flock. As the turkeys stood in momentary suspense, the sunlight gilding their bronze feathers to a brighter sheen, there was a movement in the dense undergrowth. The flock took suddenly to wing,--a flash from among the leaves, the sharp crack of a rifle, and one of the birds fell heavily over the bluff and down toward the valley. The young mountaineer's exclamation of triumph died in his throat. He came running to the verge of the crag, and looked down ruefully into the depths where his game had disappeared. "Waal, sir," he broke forth pathetically, "this beats my time! If my luck ain't enough ter make a horse laugh!" He did not laugh, however; perhaps his luck was calculated to stir only [v]equine risibility. The cliff was almost perpendicular; at the depth of twenty feet a narrow ledge projected, but thence there was a sheer descent, down, down, down, to the tops of the tall trees in the valley far below.