MARCH 47 



leaves, not the flowers. Poor hares ! It 

 is little consolation for our loss to remember 

 that they were all shot and roasted for 

 dinner, after they had done the mischief ! 



Charming as masses and lines of crocus 

 are in the borders and parterres, to enjoy 

 them thoroughly they must be growing in 

 the green grass, and they must be spread- 

 ing themselves wide open to the sunshine 

 at mid-day. The orchard is gay with 

 broad patches of yellow crocus remnants 

 torn from the field of the Cloth of Gold ; 

 and the banks of our tiny watercourse is a 

 long green cloth laid out with services of 

 amethyst and silver cups. Within the 

 garden pure white and golden crocus 

 sprinkle the turf round trees and else- 

 where, where their leaves need not be 

 mown off too soon. 



All this should be in the past tense, for 

 the crocus has already seen its prime, and 

 the remaining few look pinched under the 

 east wind's bane. How strangely vivid, 

 with how great tenacity, will some very 

 little unimportant scene or feeling some- 

 times cling to the memory through all the 



