Like love, dandelion greens are not for every day or every month. They are to be enjoyed in bulk, in bushels, within their proper season. Their season is the Spring of the year when small boys and young ram-lambs dance along the sky. Their time is when the voice of the turtledove is heard in the land, when the snake casts her azure skin and grows young again, when trout rise to May flies in sudden rainbows, when blossoms snow the apple orchards, when the plowman plows, and little girls dance in a ring and choose their blushing partners in slender dungarees for the day, and maybe for a lifetime of Springs, and dandelions, together.
The manifest destiny of these sons of Spring and the Spring sun is a vast iron pot, enriched and stoutened by thick, fat salt pork and three or four hours of steady boiling. Then they become what once they used to be in the boyhood of our nation's history—sweet makings of stout Americans.
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