" O my garden full of singing, from the birds that house therein.** 



PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 



MARCH 



CURE token of the Springtime again in our midst is 

 ^ the presence of the daffodils, those hardy, poet-loved 

 flowers of the meadow and copse, now awaking and almost 

 on the point of blossoming, the March breezes rioting 

 among their lanceolate leaves. There are meadows I know 

 of near to this Middlesex Garden that soon will be golden 

 in places with their blooms. To be their lyric poet is left 

 to the thrush; and notice, how more melodiously he sings 

 when in their vicinity 



"... Wise thrush : he sings each song twice over, 

 Lest you should think he never could recapture 

 The first fine careless rapture ! " 



Yes, the thrush and the daffodil spell Spring ; and how he 

 loves the rain, too, ever singing a still more silvery strain, as 

 if refreshed by the passing shower, when the sun is out again 

 and the land smells sweet with the clouds' tribute. How 

 swift at this season is each dark cloud to show its silvery 

 lining ! One hardly knows upon which to bestow most 

 admiration, whether it be for the song of birds at their best 

 at dawn and twilight or for the beauty of changing hours. 

 Perhaps the greater share of our delight goes to the birds 

 in the , 



" Season of magical skies, when glad larks greet 

 Spring at heav'n's bright gate." 



There is something invigorating and life-giving in the 

 air as it blows about the garden, kept too long flowerless, 



54 



