A sweet gravity and consecration of thought possessed her,
and the pink blossoms falling into her basket were not more delicate
than the rose-colored dreams that flushed her soul.
Anthony put in the last wooden peg, and taking up his violin called,
"Davy, lad, come out and tell me what this means!"
Davy was used to this; from a wee boy he had been asked
to paint the changing landscape of each day, and to put into
words his uncle's music.
Lyddy dropped her needle, the birds stopped to listen,
and Anthony played.
"It is this apple orchard in May time," said Davy;
"it is the song of the green things growing, isn't it?"
"What do you say, dear?" asked Anthony, turning to his wife.
Love and hope had made a poet of Lyddy. "I think Davy is right,"
she said. "It is a dream of the future, the story of all new and
beautiful things growing out of the old. It is full of the sweetness
of present joy, but there is promise and hope in it besides.
It is like the Spring sitting in the lap of Winter, and holding
a baby Summer in her bosom.
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