o 



The world like one great garden show'd, 



And thro* the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd 



Rare sunrise flow'd/* 



TENNYSON. 



MAY 



F the time 



" When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth," 



Jean Ingelow sings in one of her passionate lyrics, meaning 

 the time of May, the days that now are with us, when the 

 world is fair in its first fresh leafy loveliness. The most 

 beautiful time of the year seems to burst suddenly upon us. 

 After a day of continuous showers, followed by a night of 

 cold, star-hiding mist, we wake to find the hedges greener, and 

 more leafy the trees; clearer the landscape stretches before 

 our eyes, closer the daisies crowd together in the spears of 

 the grass, which other flowers, including the blue bugle, also 

 enamel. In the lane the yellow archangel has shown flower, 

 amid other members of the same family (Labiate), namely, 

 the red and white dead nettle and ground ivy. The new 

 crisp leaves of the blush sorrel, gipsywort, and willow-herb 

 fringing the merrily-pacing brook in the meadow send out a 

 refreshing odour. Along the stream-side what dainty pictures 

 are formed, where the cattle are straying in the blue shadows, 

 as they feed upon the luxurious herbage the well-watered 

 banks bestow ! We may trace their measured wandering in 

 the morning by the dints of their feet amid clover-leaves, 

 white with the bloom of the dew. The leaves of the limes 

 along the avenue shine with a beautiful soft gloss, the foliage 

 dappled with the red scales of the leaf-buds yet unshed. But 

 this is suburban May. It comes to the city in this wise : 



