Spring

Yesterday, as I was driving through a pass in the White Mountains, I saw patches of snow still clinging to the shady sides of nearby hills, and of course the trees weren’t yet in leaf. But here at home, the daffodils are up, the forsythia is in its glory, and the cardinals are busy building their nests. And down in Georgia, if I can tell from a little golf tournament they held there a couple of weeks ago, Mr. Mockingbird is singing away, setting the bounds of his territory, and delighting the heart of the Missus. It’s spring, and as the poet says, “In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”

You might guess that the name of the season, spring, our Word of the Week, comes from the notion that everything is springing up: grass, flowers, little lambs newborn, and all the animals that contentedly snored away the winter and now come out again, scratching their backs on trees and sniffing the air for something good to eat. You’d be right, that’s where our word co…