io THE COUNTRY MONTH BY MONTH. 



mists of November presaging the nipping hopelessness of 

 winter : we are surrounded by hope ; and at our feet, if 

 not so obviously above our heads, there is already a wealth 

 of greenness and even of flower, if we will but look for it, 

 a wealth undreamt of by many "in populous city pent." 

 The fox-hunter knows the woodlands in March, and only 

 the most bigoted of his kind will blame the violets for 

 spoiling the scent. The permanent resident in the country 

 cannot fail to see many an early blossom by the roadside, 

 whilst the cottage garden soon becomes gay with flowers ; 

 but the townsman knows little or nothing of the country 

 in March. He may have visited it amid the snows of 

 Christmas ; but he rarely thinks of a country ramble before 

 Easter as presenting any possibilities of enjoyment. Let 

 us tempt the dweller in the country to wander yet further 

 afield, and the citizen 



" Here in this roaring moon of daffodil 

 And crocus, to put forth and brave the blast." 



As we start we may speculate as to whether the ancients, 

 in dedicating this month to Mars, that somewhat blustering 

 god, had any thought of the appropriateness of their act 

 from the meteorological point of view ; or as to who would 

 be the purchaser of this cloud of March dust, if we were 

 to gather it, at the market rate of a guinea a peck or a 

 king's ransom per bushel. Let us go then to 



"... feel the bluff North blow again 



And mark the sprouting thistle 

 Set up on waste patch of the lane 



Its green and tender bristle, 

 And spy the scarce-blown violet-banks, 



Crisp primrose-leaves and others, 

 And watch the lambs leap at their pranks, 



And butt their patient mothers." 



