It is time to chant a hymn of more liberal gratitude.
There are no days in the whole round year more delicious than those which often come to us in the latter half of April.
On these days one goes forth in the morning, and finds an Italian warmth brooding over all the hills, taking visible shape in a glistening mist of silvered azure, with which mingles the smoke from many bonfires.
The sun trembles in his own soft rays, till one understands the old English tradition, that he dances on Easter-Day.
Swimming in a sea of glory, the tops of the hills look nearer than their bases, and their glistening watercourses seem close to the eye, as is their liberated murmur to the car. All across this broad intervale the teams are ploughing.
The grass in the meadow seems all to have grown green since yesterday.
The blackbirds jangle in the oak, the robin is perched upon the elm, the song-sparrow on the hazel, and the bluebird on the apple-tree.
There rises a hawk and sails slowly, the stat