I reached the old home under the hill, delighted to see once more the eyes which looked love to eyes that spoke again, to hear the familiar spring chorus from the river, the first robins and bluebirds rejoicing over the resurrection of nature, to explore each sheltered nook for the early cowslips, violets, pussy-willows, dandelions, and crocuses; to gossip with my old friends the chipmunks, the muskrats, and the woodchucks; to revisit each mossy hollow and sequestered retreat in my much loved pine woods; to whittle again the willow whistles, to caress the opening buds and tiny green growing blades of grass; to float once more in my little boat under the embracing arms of my chums, the oaks, birches, and hemlocks I loved so well; to watch the first flight of Psyche, the butterfly, so emblematic of the soaring of the immortal soul from the body dead.  The wood duck seemed to smile upon me as of old as she sailed gracefully into the little coves in my river, the woodpeckers beat their drums in my honor, and the heron, the “Shu-Shugah”—­screamed welcome oh, my lover.

The rapture of the returning life to nature thrilled my inmost being.  Blue waves are tossing, white wings are crossing, the earth springs forth in the beauty of green, and the soul of the beautiful chanted to all, the sweet refrain: 

  Come to me, come to me, oh my God, oh, come to me everywhere,
  Let the earth mean Thee, and the mountain sod, the ocean and the air,
  For Thou art so far that I sometimes fear,
  As on every side I stare
  Searching within, and looking without, if Thou art anywhere.

My mother brought out all her choicest treasures for her “long lost baby”; my father and brothers “killed the fatted calf” for the “prodigal returned,” the wide old fireplace sent forth its cheering warmth, the neighbors gathered round to swap stories, and the apples, walnuts and home-brewed juice of the fruit contributed their inspiration to the hearty good cheer.

Within and without the genial spirit of springtime cheered the heart of man and the heart of nature, and all things animate and inanimate sang the words of the poet.

  “Doves on the sunny eaves are cooing,
    The chip-bird trills from the apple-tree;
  Blossoms are bursting and leaves renewing,
    And the crocus darts up the spring to see. 
  Spring has come with a smile of blessing,
    Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath,
  Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing,
    And wakes from the winter’s dream of death.”

That summer my services were frequently utilized as substitute preacher by our good pastor, who was much afflicted with what Mrs. Partington calls “brown creeturs.”  He had harped on one string of his vocal apparatus so long that like Jeshuran of old “it waxed fat and kicked.”  Exceedingly monotonous and soporific was his voice, and it was necessary to strain every nerve to tell whether he was preaching, praying or reading, the words were much the same in each case.