34 MY DEVON YEAR 



the Vikings' blood, and touched them to greatness ; 

 and still he flies, the very symbol of scorned and 

 unloved Truth. He mourns not at his frosty welcome, 

 but swings his scythe to discipline a sleepy world 

 and brace it against the clarion of the Spring. 



Ill-repute is the reward of most well-doing ; and so 

 he finds it. The wind of the South brings life for the 

 flowers and takes their incense to his rainy bosom ; 

 the West wind opens their petals at dawn, closes 

 them at even, and is rewarded by all their summer 

 loveliness ; even Boreas does not fright them in July, 

 and freshens each drooping bud against the noon 

 ardour of the sun ; but no flower loves the East wind. 

 No blossom lifts up a little mouth to his grey throne ; 

 no gentle petals court his kiss ; the very leaflet hugs 

 its twin fearfully while he blows. Only the daffodil 

 will not fear him presently, but curtsey to his salute ; 

 only the catkins on the hazel and alder will dance 

 merrily at his keen music and shed their pollen to 

 transform the fertile blossoms into nuts and cones. 



He flies a noble type of stern wisdom and far-seeing 

 mercy ; and he shall be found the very antithesis of 

 a sentimental and hysteric zeal that would smother 

 English thought and action in so many directions 

 to-day. But it must be permitted the student of 

 Nature's method to hope that this miscalled hu- 

 manity will soon vanish before the East wind of 

 man's reason ; that instead of building hothouses 

 and forcing-pits for our weeds, we shall cease to breed 

 them ; that the social clod may be probed even to its 



