46 THE RING OF NATURE 



But let us leave Hyde Park far behind and 

 keep St. Valentine's Day where no one lives 

 but those who get their living direct from the 

 soil. The cottage gardens are one sheet of 

 snowdrops Fair Maids of February standing in 

 their spotless thousands like uncountable confir- 

 mation candidates. (Candidate, a candid person, 

 from Candida, signifying shining white.) You 

 would think that these gardens were dedicated to 

 nothing but snowdrops the whole year through ; 

 but somehow in summer the roots of other flowers 

 feed without harm among the sleeping bulbs, and 

 give us sheets of other colour almost as close-woven 

 as this shining white garment. 



On the orchard bough that overleaps the cottage 

 roof, not the orchard bough of which Browning 

 sang, but with bare grey twigs showing as yet none 

 of the promise of May, sits and sings a chaffinch. 

 The slate of his neck has burst into a blue flame, 

 the chestnut of his breast overflows his wings 

 and glows like incandescent copper ; and when 

 he flies before his mate with the deliberate inten- 

 tion of showing off his charms he flashes dazzling 

 white swords in his tail, and dazzling white bars 

 upon his wings. 



The chaffinches are everywhere as we walk 

 along, sitting on vantage trees and singing their 

 stammered cry of ' g-g-g-ginger beer.' They do 

 not, as most birds, sing all alike, but a bird here 

 and there has taught himself a longer song, or 

 introduced some variation into the war-cry of the 



