May-day--I forget whether by Zenobia's sole decree, or by the unanimous

vote of our community--had been declared a movable festival. It was

deferred until the sun should have had a reasonable time to clear away

the snowdrifts along the lee of the stone walls, and bring out a few of

the readiest wild flowers. On the forenoon of the substituted day,

after admitting some of the balmy air into my chamber, I decided that

it was nonsense and effeminacy to keep myself a prisoner any longer.

So I descended to the sitting-room, and finding nobody there, proceeded

to the barn, whence I had already heard Zenobia's voice, and along with

it a girlish laugh which was not so certainly recognizable. Arriving

at the spot, it a little surprised me to discover that these merry

outbreaks came from Priscilla.

The two had been a-maying together. They had found anemones in

abundance, houstonias by the handful, some columbines, a few

long-stalked violets, and a quantity of white everlasting flowers, and

had filled up their basket with the delicate spray of shrubs and trees.

None were prettier than the maple twigs, the leaf of which looks like a

scarlet bud in May, and like a plate of vegetable gold in October.

Zenobia, who showed no conscience in such matters, had also rifled a

cherry-tree of one of its blossomed boughs, and, with all this variety

of sylvan ornament, had been decking out Priscilla. Being done with a

good deal of taste, it made her look more charming than I should have

thought possible, with my recollection of the wan, frost-nipt girl, as

heretofore described. Nevertheless, among those fragrant blossoms, and

conspicuously, too, had been stuck a weed of evil odor and ugly aspect,

which, as soon as I detected it, destroyed the effect of all the rest.

There was a gleam of latent mischief--not to call it deviltry--in

Zenobia's eye, which seemed to indicate a slightly malicious purpose in

the arrangement.

As for herself, she scorned the rural buds and leaflets, and wore

nothing but her invariable flower of the tropics.

"What do you think of Priscilla now, Mr. Coverdale?" asked she,

surveying her as a child does its doll. "Is not she worth a verse or

two?"

"There is only one thing amiss," answered I. Zenobia laughed, and flung

the malignant weed away.

"Yes; she deserves some verses now," said I, "and from a better poet

than myself. She is the very picture of the New England spring;

subdued in tint and rather cool, but with a capacity of sunshine, and

bringing us a few Alpine blossoms, as earnest of something richer,

though hardly more beautiful, hereafter. The best type of her is one

of those anemones."




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