A copse skirting the road was just bursting out into bud.

Each unrolling leaf was in very act of escaping from its prison.

Israel looked at the budding leaves, and round on the budding sod, and up at the budding dawn of the day.

He was so sad, and these sights were so gay, that Israel sobbed like a child, while thoughts of his mountain home rushed like a wind on his heart.

But conquering this fit, he marched on, and presently passed nigh a field, where two figures were working.