MEADOWS OF ASPHODEL. 



HE month of March, with its 

 broken sunshine and its windy 

 skies, has brightened the lanes 

 and meadows with touches of that 

 colour that, under the warmer sun 

 of April, will broaden now from 

 week to week until it ripens into the 

 flowery prime of May. 



From far southern lands come back the wander- 

 ing birds. The swallow, lost to us so long, seeks 

 again the haunts of her youth. All day long the chiff- 

 chaff is telling to the children of the wood the news 

 of her return ; and on every hand, in field and hedge- 

 row, fresh plants are opening to the sun. 



4—2 



