"
Blest be the bride.
VI
THE HARBINGER
Long before the springtide is felt in the dull bosom of the yokel
does the city man know that the grass-green goddess is upon her
throne. He sits at his breakfast eggs and toast, begirt by stone
walls, opens his morning paper and sees journalism leave vernalism
at the post.
For, whereas, spring's couriers were once the evidence of our finer
senses, now the Associated Press does the trick.
The warble of the first robin in Hackensack, the stirring of the
maple sap in Bennington, the budding of the pussy willows along Main
Street in Syracuse, the first chirp of the bluebird, the swan song of
the Blue Point, the annual tornado in St. Louis, the plaint of the
peach pessimist from Pompton, N. J., the regular visit of the tame
wild goose with a broken leg to the pond near Bilgewater Junction,
the base attempt of the Drug Trust to boost the price of quinine
foiled in the House by Congressman Jinks, the first tall poplar
struck by lightning and the usual stunned picknickers who had taken
refuge, the first crack of the ice jam in the Allegheny River, the
finding of a violet in its mossy bed by the correspondent at Round
Corners--these are the advance signs of the burgeoning season that
are wired into the wise city, while the farmer sees nothing but
winter upon his dreary fields.
But these be mere externals. The true harbinger is the heart. When
Strephon seeks his Chloe and Mike his Maggie, then only is spring
arrived and the newspaper report of the five-foot rattler killed in
Squire Pettigrew's pasture confirmed.
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