Heralds of the Spring. 31 



with protecting arms, primroses have looked out with 

 sweet pale faces all the winter through. A tiny speed- 

 well here and there opens bright blue eyes to meet 

 the sun, timid yet, and tearful, and soon discouraged, 

 but gaining strength and beauty in the lengthening 

 sunshine. 



The cones of the great alder by the weir, that all 

 the year have hung like sad coloured beads from 

 every spray, are relieved by the fresher tint of opening 

 catkins. The wash of the water has worn the earth 

 away from the roots of the old tree and made a very 

 jungle among the tangled fibres. Here the water-rail 

 finds cover when the reeds are thinned and beaten 

 down. Hither the moorhen hastens to find sanctuary, 

 skilfully threading the winding channels of the weed ; 

 and then scrambling ashore, steals far in under the 

 bank until the steps have died away along the lane. 



No winter yet was known to freeze this pool. The 

 springs that boil up through the sand far down in that 

 great hollow, sending up now and then a stream of 

 silvery bubbles, are beyond the reach of frost, and 

 here in the hardest weather the mallard can always 

 find a stretch of open water. 



On the soft sands of the shallow streamlet farther 

 down a whole tribe of water-loving creatures write in 

 clear symbols their unlettered names. These tiny 

 round footprints, neatly set in pairs, are the record of 

 the vole. Those broad angular imprints are the 

 cipher of the water-hen. This deep, deliberate stamp 



