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Perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out and uncurl—and perhaps—the gray is changing and a green gauze veil is creeping—and creeping over—everything. And the birds are coming to look at it—because it is—so safe and still. And perhaps—perhaps—perhaps—�
“I never knowed it by that name but what does th� name matter? I warrant they call it a different name i� France an� a different one i� Germany. Th� same thing as set th� seeds swellin� an� th� sun shinin� made thee a well lad an� it’s th� Good Thing. It isn’t like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called out of our names. Th� Big Good Thing doesn’t stop to worrit, bless thee. It goes on makin� worlds by th� million—worlds like us. Never thee stop believin� in th� Big Good Thing an� knowin� th� world’s full of it—an� call it what tha� likes. Tha� wert singin� to it when I come into
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“Where you tend a rose, my lad, A thistle cannot grow.�
