Spring Unions.

For this is Spring, with a capital “ring.” It is the union of the bursting bud and the budding “burst,” fresh greens and fresh scenes, and all the little things that dis-count Dismay. For:—

In the spring the old grow young,
And the young grow younger,
And there creeps across each one
A kind of hunger,
For such psychologic solstice
As only Spring can foal—
A sort of poignant poultice
On the soul.
In the spring the turnip turns,
And the fungoids fumble
With their nighties, one by one,
While they take a tumble
To an early Scarlet Runner,
As it softly slips in gear.
And they whisper “ain't it stunner—
Spring is here.”
In the spring the baby onion,
And the wurzel, young and juicy,
Feel a beating in the brisket,

And come over kind of “goosey,”
And the slug, though kind of sluggish,
And the worm wrapped up in mud,
Feel the corpuscles bestirring
In their blood.
In the spring new hope takes root
In the soil of fancy,
And the magic of the sun
Works necromancy
In the hearts of Man and mangel,
Then the sluggish Slump takes wing,
With its whiskers in a tangle,
In the spring.
What is Spring but birth of hope,
Or an antiseptic soap,
With an effervescent sud,
For removing all the mud,
From the blood;
Or a tonic with a kick,
Guaranteed at once to lick
Sagging souls back into shape;
Or a method of escape
From the Jim-jams, or the ring
Of the dumbell on the wing,
That is Spring.

And so, rejuvenated reader, knowing your onions as you do, spring to it.