Pebbles and Shells

Front matter

THE BLIND POET AT WORK

Pebbles and Shells

BY

Introduction

INTRODUCTION

ppoem|{sm} Ye who love the haunts of Nature, Love the sunshine and the meadow Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches, And the rain shower and the snow storm, And the rushing of green rivers, Through their palisades and pine trees, And the thunder in the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries: Listen!" >>—Longfellow.

In accordance with the above adjuration, so captivating to those to whom the apostrophe is addressed the almoner who subscribes himself herewith, at once opens out this new and effervescing volume of poems for their perusal, bespeaking from the world of letters a sympathetic ear, and consonance with its song: for,

The Book of Nature is ever full of ecstasy and beauty. Its leaves turn toward the sun. Its music is eolean. Its fountains are pellucid and inexhaustible. From its sources we have to draw and drink refreshingly. Perchance some of those who read these stanzas—some of those who have trod the sylvan paths which Thoreau so much loved, and which Longfellow never tired of describing with his pen, may be persuaded to link arms with the blind author, and so all saunter on together?

It has been well said that there are but few great Nature lovers; that is strictly speaking, whose souls are in attune with the Creator's: but there have been a sufficient few to stamp their personality on the regions which they have animated. Thoreau's country, simple as it is, plain in its features, rough in its contour sometimes, is lovable because Thoreau has been there. We love the sods and the brown leaves which his feet have pressed. The wildwood precincts are hallowed by his memories. Men die, voices fail, and sentiment decays. Catbirds which are melodious in June squawk in August. Nevertheless, we love them all, birds and human kind, for what they were, and for what they have made their little spots of earth; and so, when the Hadley poet sings, we love him too. A quiet bit of country under an observant eye can be made to yield a store of happiness. Dudley Warner wheeled his settee around the garden-oak, to follow the sunshine or the shade, until he wore a path in the grass. N. P. Willis wrote winsome letters from under a bridge. And now, herewith, a vista opens before us down the forest lane. Methinks I hear the muffled drum beat of a partridge in the spruce. "Listen!" We feel already an impulse to proceed. Come with the poet! He will not sing in vain.

Our favorite Eugene Field is wont to dwell with sentimental fondness upon the memories of his dear Hampshire Hills: the old homestead, the cow pasture, the yearling colt, the watering trough, the deserted mill, the little red school house, and the playmates of his youth. But his reveries are liable to start a tear or draw his readers off into overgrown lanes and solitary corners, while Hawkes' themes, which bubble and flow from the self-same hillsides, are for the most part sparkling, treating of the ecstasies of the present hour. Sun pictures they are, indeed, and all the brighter, apparently, for being physiologically developed in the dark! He says himself:

'Tis not for wealth I sing my simple lays, Or e'en for fame, or for the critic's praise, But for the joy of feeling and of living All that I say, and for the joy of giving."

The outburst is spontaneous and continuous. Perhaps it is because he is so young? And so we find his treble keyed to the notes of the bluebird. He twines his lute with the flowers that bloom in the spring and the clematis which climbs up over the porch. In the sunny corner he weaves his webs of fancy, while he inhales the sweet aroma which lures the insect tribes. In his mind's eye he watches them, as they flit from anther to corolla, and following after, gathers poesy from each bloom. Forsooth, it is a blessed thing to have no eyes, and so shut out the hideous things of earth!

Na'theless, the mind will not permit the material senses to dwell always in Elysium. Whenever the imagination strays into the Valley of the Dark Shadow, as it must sometimes, it conjures up all sorts of sombre themes; and on such occasions the vagrant muse emits an undertone like the rumble of water in a deep cavern. It is then the poet writes dramatically of battle fields and carnage in which he has had no part, and of chimeras which he has never seen. Ah! this discerning with the spiritual eye! who shall fathom it? Biologists are puzzled. But are not these mysterious lucubrations which so much surprise us, really the outcome of the divine nature which is in man? scintillations of omniscience, as it were, which we are told is an attribute of the immortal world? Does Drummond inform us exactly where the natural and the spiritual meet and blend?

It was my good fortune to be domiciled during the summer of 1893 under the same venerable rooftree with my blind young friend whose all seeing Muse has inspired this book of poems. I have touched elbows with him while we strolled under the spreading elms which double line the main thoroughfare of historic Hadley, and marvelled as we walked, to discover that his perception was in some respects more acute than mine; especially on pitch-dark nights, when I had to depend upon his subtle acumen to avoid obstacles which my natural eye could not perceive! He says the air seems more dense when objects intervene. And so it is that he recognizes open spaces and solid bodies like houses, trees and telegraph poles, as he passes along; or persons as they approach, on foot or in vehicles, even at considerable distances. He has correct ideas of locality and associated landmarks, and an apprehension of dangerous proximities, seldom stumbling over obstacles, or into a hole. In fact, throughout his everyday life there is a constant manifestation of psychical phenomena which it will be useless to attempt to account for until we come to realize that the carnal envelope with its five so-called senses is actually a hindrance rather than a help to a free operation of the spiritual energy.

In the case of Clarence Hawkes, he seems to possess the gift of clairvoyance. He easily discovers articles mislaid; reads character with correctness by a grasp of the hand; and when introduced to strangers will size up their height, weight, features, age, and state of health, as soon as he shakes hands with them. He knows when chairs and tables are removed from their wonted places without having to ascertain by feeling for them, and he can tell when people are in the room and how many there are even when perfect silence is preserved. No meteorological changes escape his notice. Fair weather cheers him and dull weather depresses him, more than it does most of those who see. He identifies the birds by their chirps and carols, the flowers by their odors, shrubs by their leaves, trees by their bark, and fishes by their shape and fins. He is a critical musician and a piano tuner, plays chess, works a type-writer, keeps scores of ball games, and travels all over the country without a companion. Few habitues of the mountain streams which thread his native hills in western Massachusetts are more deft in casting a fly or worm, or handling a trout. Most remarkable of all, he has discovered that the gamut is prismatic and that sounds have color. Middle C, he says, is deep red, and each ascending note grows lighter by degrees until the highest becomes white; while the lower tones are graded in darker shades till the very lowest shows black.

Mr. Hawkes received a four years' course of instruction at the Perkins Institute in Boston. His study of elocution at that time has fitted him for the lecture platform which he adorns. He has also been a successful magazine writer. His poem "Erosion" took the fourth prize among two thousand competitors for the prizes offered by the Magazine of Poetry this year. His younger brother, it is due to say, has been his constant help as reader and amanuensis for several years.

It is half a century since the literary world possessed a blind poet. Percival of New Haven was the last. But Percival had not the refined intellectuality of the author of this volume. As yet it is too soon to define his position among the literati; but if "Pebbles and Shells" are an index, the Blind Poet of New England is destined to occupy a high place among the great bards of America. The merits of some part of its contents have been so signal as to elicit an autograph letter of approval from Hon. Robert T. Lincoln, ex-Secretary of the Navy.

Charles Hallock.

Biographical Sketch

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

FROM THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY

Clarence Hawkes, better known as the "Blind Poet of New England," was born in Goshen, Mass., December 16th, 1869. When nine years of age, he met with an accident while returning from school, which culminated in the amputation of one leg. When thirteen years of age while out hunting he was accidentally shot by his companion and both eyes were injured.

After undergoing several severe operations in hopes of regaining his sight, this hope was abandoned and at the age of fifteen he entered the Perkins Institution for the Blind. Here in addition to the regular course, he studied music and piano tuning, and was graduated after four years, taking the last two years' work in one. The following year he returned to the school for a post-graduate course, and at the same time began the study of law and oratory with teachers from Boston Colleges. After six months of arduous study his health gave way beneath the strain and he returned home to his parents, then located at Cummington, Mass.

One year was then spent in recruiting, and at the age of twenty-one Mr. Hawkes went upon the platform as a public lecturer, and at the same time began writing short stories and poems for local newspapers. Since that time he has written three hundred poems and over fifty short stories and sketches, and lectured in nearly all parts of New England. He is at present a contributor to over a score of the high class periodicals. Mr. Hawkes travels alone on his lecture trips and gets about with the greatest ease. He is a base-ball and football enthusiast, a skillful fisherman and an accomplished chess player, while one of his chief amusements is to visit a picture gallery.

In the Wood

POEMS OF NATURE

When autumn lights her crimson flame What artist would not give his fame To paint so rich and rare? When winter robes the firs in white, Resplendent in the morning light What jewels tremble there!

How soft the wind of summer eves That gently whispers in the leaves Of lordly forest trees? How wild the whirling tempest's breath That wails the dirge of summer's death In magic minor keys!

Ah, Nature! wrap thy dreamy shade About the life that thou hast made, And let me slumber long! Thine echoes softly, sweetly roll Through hidden chambers of the soul, And teach the poet song.

Where Dwells the Spirit of Poesy?

Or doth her voice in sweetest accents rise, From bird, or brook, or is it in the cries The wild wind wakes upon the lonely lea?

The soul of poesy is everywhere, Unto the eyes and ears of him who sings, And all the world is filled with wondrous things, To him whose soul reflects the beauties there.— There is no thing so mean the worlds among, That is not mete to grace the poet's song.

Dawn

Until it burneth like a maiden's cheek, Or deeper like the crimson of the rose.

But higher still the day's avenging fire Streams o'er the ramparts of the flying night, Flooding the world with swift effulgent light, Waking a thousand songs from Nature's lyre; And then the great sun rolls his golden car Up from the east and drives the night afar.

Elegy at the Birthplace of Bryant

But now no dwelling crowns the cellar wall, For, long ago, its beams and rafters fell— Only a marble shaft, not broad or tall, Amid the solitude stands sentinel.

And now, no children's merry shout is heard, That sound of yore that cheered the poet's heart Yet still there comes the "lilting" of a bird, And one wild rose has not forgot the spot.

There is no trace of footsteps on the lawn, No vestige of the well-worn gravel path,— Even the rustic gate and fence are gone, So time obliterates the scars of earth.

And he, the noblest of that happy throng, That gaily gathered here in years of yore, The fair, the brave, the high-souled, and the strong, Is gone, and earth shall see his face no more.

Only the sweep of deep eternal hills, Frescoes of earth, against the dreamy sky, The reverent soul with awe and rapture fills, Unchanged since when it cheered the poet's eye.

And can it be that all which he has said, The works of years, will fade away like this?

That, one by one, the burning lines will fade, Until the eye discerns but emptiness?

Ah, no! 'twas not with blocks of wood he wrought, But with the hard-hewn rocks of solid truth, Building them high into the temple, Thought, Where they are mortared in eternal youth.

And they shall stand, until the human heart To Nature's simple song no longer thrills, Years after men forget this quiet spot, Far up amid the dreamy Hampshire hills.

Pebbles and Shells

tpp|PEBBLES AND SHELLS| {asc}<>GOD'S MIRACLES Why talk of wondrous miracles of yore, When June comes whisp'ring at thy lattice door,— Are not the springing grass and op'ning flowers God's miracles through all the summer hours?

{asc}<>GREAT AND SMALL The grain of dust that dances in the sun

Obeys that law that guides the heavenly spheres,

And all the stellar bodies, one by one,

Go swinging round, obedient to the years.

{asc}<>ENVIRONMENT A wondrous shell was thrown up from the deep, Where it had lain long centuries asleep— But, in a day, the sunlight and the dew Had cracked and stained this shell of wondrous hue.

{asc}<>MY AVIARY

My aviary is the deep green wood,—

I would not cage its songsters if I could.

Sweeter the song of one wild bird to me

Than all the notes of sad captivity.

Song of the Brook

Now down a long stairway for giants, From basin to basin I spring; All foaming, and roaring defiance, My spray to the breezes I fling.

Then into a peaceful green meadow I lazily, placidly flow, And thence to the woodlands' dark shadow With laughter and dancing I go.

I sparkle and bubble with pleasure, As over the pebbles I slide; I murmur a musical measure As under the willows I glide.

In springtime I water the flowers That nod their sweet faces to me; In summer I drink up the showers, And hurry them off to the sea.

When Autumn's rich beauties are dying— Then sadly I murmur my lay; When o'er me the snow bank is lying, I gurgle the winter away.

I ripple, I dimple, I bubble— I chatter by day and by night.— My laughter will banish your trouble, My song is a giver's delight.

Don't stop me to idle or dally, My life-work is ever to flow; The meadow, the mill-wheel and valley, Are waiting to greet me below.

I pause not in lakelet or river, I rest not in woodland or lea, Still onward and onward forever I flow to the boundless blue sea.

'Tis March

Then birds will sing in all the bowers, And softest clouds and fairest flowers Will whisper joys unspoken; All Nature'll sing a sweeter song, Because the winter has been long, And now his chains are broken.

'Tis March, and o'er my weary soul Misfortune's storm with ceaseless roll, Its onward march is sweeping; While far beneath the lapse of years Long buried there, with many tears, My fondest hopes are sleeping.

No sunshine ushers in the day, No sunbeams fall across the way To cheer a heart that's weary; And still the darkest storm-clouds lie Across the azure of my sky, And all is dark and dreary.

Be strong, my heart! I know some day That all thy clouds shall roll away, By fortune's breezes driven; Then hope shall scatter all thy fears; A sunny smile shall dry thy tears, And thou shalt see but heaven.

The Mayflower

Then down came a cold April shower, And dashing the floweret with spray, It parted the folds of her bower, And showed her the light of the day.

Oh, sweetly then smiled the fair sleeper, And op'ning her eyes to the light, Her beauties grew wider and deeper, The smile on her face grew more bright.

Our sorrows are falling like snowflakes, Our pleasures are melting like snow; Kind nature ne'er thinks of our heart-aches; A flower is sleeping below.

She melts us with showers of trouble, (For life hath its seasons of rain); Our tears are the fountains that bubble In deserts of sorrow and pain.

She rouses the soul that is sleeping With showers so chilling and cold; New treasures she gives to its keeping; The beautiful petals unfold.

The Cliff and the Sea

Then angry grew the sea, and on the stone Heaped mighty waves that struck with thunderous shock— Yet all in vain they beat upon the rock And wind and wave subsided with a moan.

Then spake the sea in deep and sullen roar That echoed far along the rocky strand, Behold! My waves shall break upon this shore, And I will lash the cold repellant land, Until this cliff that proudly towers me o'er, Beneath my feet shall be but grains of sand.

Pebbles and Shells

tpp|PEBBLES AND SHELLS| {asc}<>THE PHEBE Calling its plaintive note from post and tree

The Phebe comes, nor has he other range;

And this poor song is like a life to me

That moves in one dull round, and cannot change.

{asc}<>THE PITCHER PLANT With parted petals to receive the dew, And sun and rain this flower in beauty grew; And so must we unfold our hearts to hold The sun and shower of wisdom manifold.

{asc}<>THE RAINBOW Oft when the heavens are darkest with the storm A wondrous rainbow in the sky appears. Oft when the heart is heaviest with fears, Hope riseth up with bright irradiant form.

{asc}<>FOUR-LEAFED CLOVER Four-leafed clover, I do not ask of thee To bring me gold, or bright gems from the sea, But rather bring me wealth of heart and mind; These are the treasures that I fain would find.

Sweet May! Come Back Again

Upon thy cheeks that tinted glow, The blush of evening skies.

Bring back the sunshine of my heart,— That smile upon my face. Bring back each gentle winning art, That made thee queen of grace.

Bring back each harbinger of bliss, And scatter all my fear. Of all the seasons, love I this, When thou, sweet May, art here.

Communion with Nature

The lordly oaks, more spreading than the pine, Upon whose trunks the wild grape clusters shine; What sky-born palace of the ancient time, Relumed by limnel brush, or poet's rhyme, Can match this peerless palace of the trees? With roof and dome and tower and graceful frieze All fashioned with a patience and an art, Through centuries, that wrought each tiny part.

Let rich men boast their beds of softest down, Upon the woodland moss I lay me down, Where flowers and ferns and grass all interlace, To make my weary head a resting place. There far above me for a frescoed wall, The woodland green is stretching over all, Save where the friendly branches parting high, Have left a place to view the summer sky. From bough to bough the nimble squirrel springs, And in each tree a plumed minstrel sings; Among the fallen leaves are busy ants, Rich treasures to the mind that knows their haunts, And loves to watch them build their little domes, And blend in one a thousand happy homes; Or see the spider spin his rainbow gauze, Obedient to some hidden unknown laws.

But if I lacked companions in the wood, The forest stream would woo me to its flood,

For like this torrent fleeing from its home, Impatient of delay I love to roam; Down stony steeps to plunge in mad career, Or walk beside it, running deep and clear, To saunter with it through the woodland glen, And dream apace afar from haunts of men, But ever onward to the boundless sea, To enter there and know its mystery.

A Pastel in Verse

So he who paints one page from Nature's book With Nature's art, has painted God and Heaven.

Pebbles and Shells

tpp|PEBBLES AND SHELLS| {asc}<>A BREATH Out of the garden came a little breeze, Rich with the scent of budding flowers and trees; So sweet the breath, that by me idly went, My aching heart was filled with sweet content.

{asc}<>THE SEASONS Spring is a laughing girl with azure eyes, Summer the dreamy maiden grown more wise, Autumn is womanhood, with joy, and pain, And Winter age, when life begins to wane.

{asc}<>THE ICE-FLOE The ice-floe drifting from the northern pole, But shows a little o'er the rolling seas; S0 he who thinks he knows life's mysteries, But sees a portion of the mighty whole.

{asc}<>THE AURORA Only a flush upon the northern sky, Then suddenly the heavens open wide, And flames with green and gold, and crimson dyed, Leap fiercely forth, then slowly sink, and die.

June and October

Dark is the heart, and steeped in ceaseless pain That cannot smile when June comes back again; Sad is the soul, and lonely are the ways That can resist October's dreamy days. I love them both, these gentle sisters twain,— Sweet, smiling June. without a thought of care, And fair October with her chestnut hair.

Pebbles and Shells

tpp|PEBBLES AND SHELLS| {asc}<>EROSION Even the little waves that idly dance

Against the cliff, will crumble it to sand;

And so, with ceaseless toil, the slightest hand

May wear away the walls of circumstance.

{asc}<>THE AFTERGLOW

After the day is done, the passing light

Sheddeth a halo round the feet of night;

So, after death, a noble life may shed

Soft radiance where they that live must tread.

{asc}<>NATURE'S PALACE What courts of stone can match the deep green wood

Where verdant oaks and maples spreading meet,

With ferns, and flowers, and mosses for the feet,

And for man's din, sweet Nature's solitude.

{asc}<>THE LANGUAGE OF THE LEAVES

When in the deep green woods I i1dly walk,

And all the little leaves begin to talk

Among the branches of the forest trees,—

I think how filled is earth with mysteries.

Little Things

ppoem| {asc}<>LITTLE THINGS There is no blade of grass but has some power, And silently it groweth, hour by hour; There is no life, however mean or small But addeth something to God's mighty whole.

Niagara

ppoem| {asc}<>NIAGARA Niagara, sublime, eternal, grand, 'Rolling thy thunderous torrent ceaselessly; Thou art one drop from out the boundless sea, That resteth in the hollow of God's hand.

The Last Fair Day

Oh! how the glad sun warmed the frozen earth, Making her pulseless heart to beat again, Dancing his sunbeams over hill and plain! Until it seemed like Summer's second birth, But e'er his orb had even time to dim The night and cold fell like a pall on him.

Pebbles and Shells

tpp|PEBBLES AND SHELLS| {asc}<>TIME Time is a bird that wings with ceaseless flight Over the land, nor rests by day or night; You mark its form against the sky of dawn Then dream apace, and night comes softly on.

{asc}<>THE CLOVER BLOSSOM

Slender and pale, and hidden in the grass,

So that you scarce can see it as you pass,

The clover stands,—but every wild bee knows

'Tis sweeter far than any blushing rose.

{asc}<>ROILED The placid brooklet ran with limped flood— The angry stream grew dark with sticks and mud— So anger darkens e'en the brightest face And takes from fair humanity its grace.

{asc}<>A LOVER

The honey-bee, through sunny hours

Goes courting all the sweetest flowers,—

Into their hearts he slyly slips

And steals sweet nectar from their lips.

New England Winter

Yet still he lingered by the window frame And on its smooth glass wrote his mystic name.

Then through the cellar wall went creeping in, To nip the rosy apples in their bin, Or freeze the golden pumpkins on the floor, With spiteful heart to spoil the winter store; But ever and anon comes back again To peep in at the frosty window pane, And, if the fire upon the hearth burns low, He creeps into the room, and chills it so That soon the revelers draw near the fire And stir the coals and pile the fuel higher. And all this time, the wild wind shrieks and groans, Or bellows down the chimney top, or moans Among the trees, or with a sudden roar, Comes rudely knocking at the cottage door. Thus goes the night, until on field and town, The feathery snow comes softly sifting down, Spreading its mantle o'er the field and wood, Folding the earth in winter's solitude.

Then morning breaks, and on the young day's cheek There comes a flush and then a crimson streak, And soon the great sunshining clear and bright Mounts o'er the hills and floods the world with light.

How strange the scene,—the winds no longer blow And quiet reigns; but how the wind-tossed snow Disguises mother earth, until things seem To be transfigured by some mystic dream. The firs are spotless white and bending low Beneath their heavy load of new made snow; The regal elm-trees lift their mighty arms, With snow and frost upon their leafless palms And stand like giants in the morning light, Their shaggy bark half showing through the white; Each fence and hedge has caught the feathery down— The garden gate-post wears a regal crown; The rose-bush too, is loaded by the storm, And every shrub has changed its old time form.

But soon the heavy teams, with boys and men, Will come to break the drifted roads again And pierce the deepest drifts and pile them high And let the merry sleighing party by; For well New England young folks love the air, The frost, the wind, the cold, the snow's white glare And all the bitter cold and nipping frost, But lends enchantment to the merry coast.

The great sun wheels his course and night draws near For winter days are short though sharp and clear. Again the restless wind begins to moan Among the trees in cheerless monotone And shake the new snow from the loaded boughs And fill the tracks just broken by the plows. Swiftly the shadows lengthen o'er the snow And one one by one the constellations show; Then night comes down and earth fantastic lies Beneath its cold star-gleaming winter skies.

The Whip-poor-will

But those three notes revealed anew to me Life's mystery, its breadth, its depth. its height— And yet, I trow he heard the lark that day And knew he sang a rude, uncultured lay.

The Flicker

(Holding with clinging claws to elm or oak,) Until the echoes of thy sturdy whacks Gave back a sound like to the woodsman's axe; While thou didst drive thy beak, with point like steel, Deep in the wood to find thy morning meal.

Pebbles and Shells

tpp|PEBBLES AND SHELLS| {asc}<>THE STARS The stars are as bright in the heavens to-night As though they had just been born, Instead of as old as the shimmering light That broke on creation's morn.

{asc}<>THE BOBOLINK

Deep fountain of unstinted song

That springs and gurgles all day long,

Thy lilting song is purest art

For all thy strains are of the heart.

{asc}<>FLORA'S CALL

Come up, come up, my little buds,

The snow is gone and spring is here,

The robin sings his song of cheer

And you must grace the fields and woods.

{asc}<>ARBUTUS Fair fragrant buds that nestle in the grass And hide from me so closely as I pass, Thou art an emblem of true charity, That bends its head and hides that none may see.

After the Storm

At morn the sun resumed his tranquil reign, The fair earth smiled through all her frozen tears And Winter's face revealed his secret fears. How gorgeous was the scene,—each field and lane Was paved with purest pearls and sparkling gems, The darkling furs were hung with diadems, And every leafless vine was fringed with frost; While Phoebus' rays on ice gems strangely made Revealed their rainbow hues; all without cost The walks of earth like heaven's streets were laid.

A Haven

I long to shield me from the cruel storm In some fair haven by the peaceful shore To cast an anchor till life's storms are o'er.

The Circle of the Golden Year

tpp|"THE CIRCLE OF THE GOLDEN YEAR"| {asc}<>JANUARY The earth is white, the air is sharp and clear, When joyous bells ring in the glad New Year;

With all its joy and grief, the old year's out—

We look not back, but welcome with a shout

The glad New Year, for all its days are ours To live, to strive, and prove our manhoods' powers.

{asc}<>FEBRUARY But when the days begin to show their length, Then winter hoar puts forth his utmost strength;

Then deeper, and still deeper, falls the snow,

And fiercer, and still fiercer wild winds blow,

Until the fields and woods are piled with drifts And scarce a day the leaden storm cloud lifts.

{asc}<>MARCH In March the Winter's last wild throes are seen, With days of sunlight coming in between—

A strange commingling blast of heat and cold

And howling winds that sweep the barren wold,

The bleakest month of all the varied year, But, at its close, the bare brown hills appear. |end=stanza

ppoem| start=stanza| {asc}<>APRIL Then April comes with sunshine and with showers To start the buds and wake the sleeping flowers.