It is Sunday now, John, and all have gone to church. The wagons have done passing and I have come out in the new grass to listen to the anthems. Three or four hens have followed me and we sit side by side. And while they crow and whisper, I'll tell you what I see today, and what I would that you saw. You remember the crumbling wall that divides us from Mr. Sweetzer; and the crumbling elms and evergreens and other crumbling things that spring and fade and cast their bloom within a simple twelve months? Well they are here! And skies on me fair and far that Italy in blue eye look down, up. See? Away a league from here on the way to heaven. And here a robin's just got home and giddy crows and jays and -- will you trust me as I live -- here's a bumblebee. Not such as summer brings, John, earnest manly bees, but a kind of a cockney, dressed in jaunty clothes. Much that is gay have I to show. If you were here with me, John, upon this April grass! Then there are sadder features. Here and there, wings have gone to dust that fluttered so last year, a moldering prune, an empty house in which a bird resided where last year's flies their errand ran and last year's crickets fell. We too are flying, fading, John. And the song here lies soon upon the lips that live us now will have hummed and ended. Thank you for your letter, John. Glad I was to get it, and gladder had I got them both. And glad indeed to see if in your heart another lies bound one day to me amid your momentous cares, pleasant to know that langsyne has its own place. That nook and cranny still retain their accustomed guest and when busier cares and dustier days and cobwebs less on frequent shut what was away. Still as a ballad hummed and lost, remember early friend and drop a tear if a troubadour that strain may chance to sing.