e so little since I saw you last?" And I can
only answer, "I was thinking of you."

I do not need another incarnation to live my life over again. I can do
that now, and the resurrection of the past, through memory, that sees
through closed eyes, is just as satisfactory as the thing itself.

Were we talking of the seasons? Very well, dearie, the seasons it shall
be. They are all charming, but if I were to wed any it would be Spring.
How well I remember the gentle perfume of her comings, and her warm,
languid breath!

There was a time when I would go out of the house some morning, and the
snow would be melting, and Spring would kiss my cheek, and then I would be
all aglow with joy and would burst into the house, and cry: "Spring is
here! Spring is here!" For you know we always have to divide our joy with
some one. One can bear grief, but it takes two to be glad.

And then my mother would smile and say, "Yes, my son, but do not wake the
baby!"

Then I would go out and watch the snow turn to water, and run down the
road in little rivulets to the creek, that would swell until it became a
regular Mississippi, so that when we waded the horse across, the water
would come to the saddlegirth.

Then once, I remember, the bridge was washed away, and all the teams had
to go around and through the water, and some used to get stuck in the mud
on the other bank. It was great fun!

The first "Spring beauties" bloomed very early in that year; violets came
out on the south side of rotting logs, and cowslips blossomed in the
slough as they never had done before. Over on the knoll, prairie-chickens
strutted pompously and proudly drummed. The war was over! Lincoln had won,
and the country was safe!

The jubilee was infectious, and the neighbors who used to come and visit
us would tell of the men and boys who would soon be back. The war was
over!

My father and mother talked of it across the table, and the men talked of
it at the store, and earth, sky and water called to each other in glad
relief, "The war is over!"

But there came a morning when my father walked up from the
railroad-station very fast, and looking very serious. He pushed right past
me as I sat in the doorway. I followed him into the kitchen where my
mother was washing dishes, and heard him say, "They have killed Lincoln!"
and then he burst into tears. I had never before seen my father shed
tears--in fact, I had never seen a man cry. There is something terrible in