GLENCOE 



THERE is a special calendar for the child- 

 garden. Its year begins in September, so 

 that by April the season is far advanced. 

 Eight months of sowing and weeding have 

 brought too scanty a harvest. Dullness stares in 

 at the window, and Weariness lurks behind the 

 door. Which is all contrary to nature, whose 

 time of beginnings is April. 



So it happens that if you have a child-garden 

 and some tired morning a tot reaches up to you 

 a bunch of pink-gray catkins on shiny brown 

 stems, your discouraged heart gives a bound of 

 joy. Pussy willows ! 



The long winter is over. Spring has begun. 

 To your nostrils comes a whiff of bursting bud- 

 scales and fresh-scattering pollen; to your eyes 

 a glimpse of brown leaf mould dotted with the 

 15 



