ixS FROM A MIDDLESEX GARDEN 



Here in the earlier period of perfected Spring, Nature 

 delights to paint her studies for our eyes in quieter colour- 

 schemes, preferably in white and green and blue, and for the 

 latter tint a writer of note says that the earth is scattered 

 " with little bits of fallen sky," the blue of the periwinkle's 

 trailing stars in the wood's more shadowy ways; the blue- 

 bells' clearer sapphire among the bracken-crosiers ; so pure a 



hue Nature 



" The million-handed painter pours ; 

 And the tints of heaven reply." 



Mrs. Craik says that it is " especially of days such as this, 

 when birds are singing, and green leaves budding, and all 

 Nature bursting out into redundant life innocent of authors, 

 painters, and books, do we long for a brief season of that 

 celestial silence to lie down and dream, without order, 

 arrangement, or even consciousness in the dreams ; to gaze, 

 enjoy, observe, and act naturally and involuntarily ; to live, 

 and see all around us living, the life of a mere flower of the 

 field." 



The year has opened once again its ancient missal to the 

 sweetest chapter of all, written in blue, and silver, and gold, 

 and headed "Spring." Penned by no human hand is the 

 story written therein, no earthly mind was large enough to 

 conceive it, no artist has such colours at his command to 

 depict the glories of these pictures Spring sets before us. 

 The story of Spring is interpreted to us in many ways : it is 

 sung by the birds ; the stream sings it in its silver melodies 

 as it flows through flowered meads ; the wind whispers it : 



" The merry blackbird and the thrush 

 With song makes jubilant each bush ; 

 The very whisper of the breeze 

 Is fraught with fragrant melodies." 



