CASTLES IN THE AIR. 



THE winds of March have passed into a proverb. 

 There is no time in all the year when the 

 cruel east blows with keener and more pitiless breath. 

 Spring is in her most capricious mood. She is indeed 

 a wayward damsel at her best. Year by year we watch 

 her smile turn swiftly to a frown ; we upbraid her for 

 a jilt and a deceiver ; we swear that her vaunted 

 graces are nothing but a fraud. 



But she has, even in March, her moods of sweet- 

 ness. Right royal favours, after all, are her days of 

 genial sunshine, when the vanes veer idly to the west- 

 ward, and the air is almost still j when the long-silent 

 birds find voice again, when butterflies begin to stir 

 abroad, and the bees are busy gilding their brown 

 coats in the wide crocus blooms. 



The bitter memories are nothing to us then. Who 

 could doubt when looking at a face so fair ? Surely 

 no malice underlies that kindly smile. Yes, it is a 

 hard experience; it is long ere we wholly learn the 

 lesson of distrust. 



