"April has wept itself to May," as the poet says, in literal truth this year. Such prolonged and heavy rains as we have all had through the middle west! The worst of it seems to be over where we are in north central Illinois, the floodwater having drained away and left our land almost tillable: but our hearts in sympathies are with those further down the Mississippi, who must suffer, not only the evil effects of the own rainfall, but the accumulated disaster of all of ours as well.
Our farmers are three weeks behind with spring work, and it will take good weather and strenuous days to get the corn land ready to plant in time. A goodly acreage of the customary oats crop could not be seeded at all. Strangely enough, the three successive freezes we had in late April did not seem to affect the fruit much.
Whatever misfortune we get in the way of rain is soon over, the real tragedy comes in the dwellers by the riverside, when the drainage waters gather into the big streams, swelling them to overflowing.
Test of Courage
Honor to those farmers, who submitted to the ruination of their lands, for the sake of saving New Orleans! There was a powerful test of courage and strength of character. How many of us, if our ancestors had worked that land 200 years and had built the levee to protect our homes, could've stood without protest, and seen those levies wrecked and our property ruined, for the sake of saving a strange city, apparently a selfish city, a city, which had done nothing in particular to help us? If many of those farmers were bitter and rebellious at the blasting of the walls, what right have we to judge them? The only fault was not being able to see a larger pattern in life: and not recognizing the need of a few to suffer for the sake of saving many.
How many of us rebel against much smaller troubles in our daily lives just because we have the same limitation? We at least give what we can afford to the suffering, flood victims and meanwhile we can count our many blessings, and be glad of some of the little happinesses that lie before us.
A Riot of Bloom
The tall, strong, crabapple tree, which we watch from the kitchen window every spring is riotous with bloom. It is the tree which gets green first of any tree in the spring, and it's development is one of the delights of our country life. It begins with just a hint of almost imperceptible color, and swiftly, day by day, becomes a massive, living green, when the maples are just barely beginning to swell their crimson buds. Then some morning, our crabtree is overlaid with the pink of buds, and from then on for a week or two it grows more and more splendid, until it is like a snowbank with bloom. As a fruit tree, it is no good, as daddy sagely remembers: the apples are very tiny, yellow ones, but afflicted with worms, and so high as to be inaccessible without an extension ladder, and the sturdy right arm at the head of the house. But as a thing of beauty, merely, it is a joy forever – not just in spring, but year-round.
Our gladioli bulbs are thriving, too. We spend more than we really could afford for them, and then, following the recommendation of an authority on the subject, I put them in the ground early in April. "Glads are very hardy," he said, "and the choicest ones should be put out the first of April, so they will have a long season in which to multiply." Then three freezes came and I truly believed that the way of the transgressor is hard. I resolved it should be a lesson to me not to indulge in any more high price bulbs, until my ship comes in. But a few days later, the slim green shoots begin to come through the ground, and now I feel quite proud of my skill with flowers. Nothing ventured nothing won they say.
Would Not Hold to the Supports
The ivy is another triumph for me, of which I must tell you. Last spring, I selected the sort of ivy, which seemed to me to fill the bill of what we wanted, and I set out and tended the plants. They grew luxuriously, but they simply would not cling to the wall. I tried all sorts of queer support, but accomplished nothing. My ivy became one of the family standing jokes. Then the spring daddy assured me that my ivy was dead and he chose a different variety and set it up to start the frost got part of him, but the joke is that my ivy is beginning to grow. Of course I can't guarantee that it will stick to the stucco any better this year than last, but I have hopes. It ought to be "acclimated" by now.
The boys' calves have been turned out into a new pasture just across the lane from the house. The boys been much time among their little pets. When one boy comes to the back door and yells "all down," he means the calves are resting. The other one goes scampering, and over the gate, they both scramble to nestle among the family of calves. Wilbert's three – Petty, Goody and Smalley -- are still a nice size for a little boy to manage. He can stand comfortably between two of them, with an arm thrown affectionately over each. He has given Goody to Ruth, so she can play with the mornings in the evenings. She has re-christened it "Goody, Two Shoes," rather meaningless for a calf, it seems to me, but apparently satisfying to her aesthetic sense.
Star and Butter
So these two calves have grown until they are taller than he is, so that his best times for petting them are when they are lying down to rest. He has named them Star and Butter. "Do you call her Butter, " asks sentimental mother, "because she is the yellowest?" "I call her butter," says Sonny, "because she butts me down."
We have a new dog too. Not really our own, but one to keep for the summer. The boys went to the village with daddy the other day and brought it home. They fairly battered me with information and their excitement when they got back. "A dog, mother, for us to keep all summer!" "He's the blacksmith's, and he wants him to run around outdoors!" "In town he just has to stay at home all the time, think of that!" "Down celler, mostly: can you imagine it?" "We have to keep him tied a few days, daddy says, and then he can run and play with us." "He's a rat terrier." "and he's a mouse terrier too." "He's white and fat and has a black spot on his eye." "He's friends with us already." "Isn't he cute?" "And his name," adds solomon Sonny, in a final burst of eloquence before he is entirely out of breath, "is Betty." – Hope.