springs are not always the same. In someyears, April bursts upon Virginia hills inone prodigious leap-and all the stage isfilled at once, whole choruses of tulips,arabesques of forsythia, cadenzas of flowering plum.The trees grow leaves overnight.
　　In other years, spring tiptoes in. It pauses, over-come by shyness, like my grandchild at the door, peepingin, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway."I knowyou're out there," I cry. "Come in!" And April slips intoour arms.