March 29.

March 30.

I hold
That 'twas the fitting season for thy birth,
When March, just ready to depart, begins
To soften into April. Then we have
The delicatest and most welcome flowers,
And yet they take least heed of bitter wind
And lowering sky.

Yet ever, when the sun looks forth again

The flowers smile up to him from their low seats.

W. C. Bryant.

APRIL.

"My name is April, sir; and I
Often laugh, as often cry;

And I cannot tell what makes me :
Only as the fit o'ertakes me

I must dimple, smile, and frown,
Laughing, though the tears roll down.
But 'tis nature, sir, not art;
And I'm happy at my heart."

Mrs. Z. B. Gustafson

April cold with dropping rain
Willows and lilacs brings again,
The whistle of returning birds
And trumpet-lowing of the herds.

R. W. Emerson.