If artists were not sensitive souls, they would not be artists, (They might be writers, instead.) Being artists, they sometimes flex their versatile brushes and turn their talents toward such mysteries as flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la. Our Hall of Fame illustrators are no exception.

Thus we see Post and Country Gentleman covers of the past coming to life in the full spring tide of blossoms. We also see our prankish painters soft-petaling the mystery bit and just having fun, reminding us that buds don't burst into bloom on their own. First there must be rain, an elemental event in which buds apparently take great delight.

Then we see kids huddled beneath an umbrella to sell their posies at a nickel a "bunsh." We see two neighbors holed up in their garages, the golfer waiting for the rain to stop so he can tee off, the gardener enjoying this boon to his broccoli and Brussels sprouts.

Then there's the kid playing "she loves me, she loves me not" with a bed of geraniums. And there's the goddess of the garden with her rakes, hoe, shovel, and watering can, sitting on a cart that would hold half the contents of a greenhouse and smugly admiring the single plant she managed to consign to the soil.