The turf is white with the fallen snow of cherry trees. The maple-tops are radiant though already casting down their keys—sending their seeds off on the wings of the wind to plant new colonies. You could almost gather up the little valley in your arms, so compact is it with bloom and fragrance. The treetops are like the glimpsing of birds' nests among the boughs, with the chimneys, the roofs of the houses, peeping out. Every warm breeze blows open little fingered hands that expand into the thick shade of summer, and all this heaped-up redundant beauty with its splendid waste and overplus of bloom rests cloudlike against the tender blue of the hills, the soft diaphanous sky, all blended in a perfect harmony.