"KING O' BUDS" 43 



dead auburn beech leaves are still clinging to the 

 arms of the mother that knows them no more, still 

 wailing with shrill sorrow to the March wind, still 

 envying the round, delicate, ruddy spikelets that hold 

 Spring's lovely robe where Nature is busy weaving it 

 upon her forest looms. 



It is a good thing to see in the deep dingles 

 those most trustful flowers that open their eyes in 

 March and fearlessly brave his blustering. The 

 moss-loving sorrel's drooping pearl ; the violets sky- 

 blue or sparkling white whose sweetness only fades 

 with their little lives ; the primroses in all their downy, 

 dewy loveliness, with clusters twinkling through the 

 carpets of dead leaves in ancient woods these and 

 the daffodils now gladden each day, though the sky is 

 hard azure and the wind is cold. The spurge-laurel's 

 delicate green flower-clusters hide in the wood; the 

 blackthorn frosts the naked hedge with silver ; the 

 stars of the colt's-foot flame beneath ; and in the water- 

 marshes the mary-buds are winking and the great 

 butter-burr making ready. 



Now the red earth, awakening to the sun as he 

 climbs higher and kisses warmer, bedecks herself in a 

 maiden kirtle of new-born humble things all starred 

 with flowers. There is a stir and whispering under 

 dead leaves, there is a dawn of life filming the naked 

 ground. In the meadows the grasses breathe again, 

 and each breath wakes the heart of the blade and sets 

 the sap moving. Little folks, that carry their seed- 

 cases on their heads, come plodding into life every- 



