Page 69 - 1929 Hartridge

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A Sprin
It is a morning early in spring, and so far, I think I am the only person
out. My dress is thin, and although the sky above is steely and clear, fore­
telling a hot noon, the air at this early hour is still too chilly to be comfort­
able. I am filled with a curious elation, and a strange feeling of conspiracy
with the trees and rocks and shrubs around me, as if all nature were about to confide in me an immense secret.
A stone kicked up and a young weed growing in my path take on a new and absurd significance. Before me lies a neglected croquet mallet, and a ball, left from the summer. I lift them, and the space of bare hard ground beneath seems full of an ominous warning. Nearby is an oak tree, its bare arms beginning to be covered by a thin growth of green, and at its foot a pile of dirty, rotting leaves swept there in haste by some careless gardener in the distant fall. Through the winter the protecting embrace of the great oak has sheltered them from the winds, and now, on every side, the earth is stirring with new life, while they remain, a soggy relic of the last dead
spring. 1 look and see that even here a few tender blades of grass are forcing their way up.
For a moment I stand on the threshold of a great discovery. My heart heats more quickly, and a feeling almost of fear overcomes me. Then the breakfast bell rings, and my mood is shattered. The sky is as blue still, and
the grass as green, hut it is just a spring morning.
M orning
C. McI., ’29.
Page Sixty-seven