188 BERTHA'S VISIT TO HER 



under the library windows. My aunt is going to 

 paint a group of them, which 1 am to have the 

 pleasure of gathering for her. Hepaticas, of all 

 colours, are unfolding their little flowers which 

 have been so long coiled up, waiting for the 

 gentle influence of spring. Periwinkle, and even 

 polyanthus, are beginning to blossom ; and the 

 sweet-scented mezereon bushes are thickly co- 

 vered with the flowers which I saw quite formed 

 in their little buds five months ago. 



The weather has been for some days as soft 

 and mild as it was cold and harsh a week 

 since ; and this has rapidly brought out both birds 

 and plants. Even my little dormouse has been 

 more lively. 



I have been reading a description of winter, 

 which gives a more melancholy idea of it than 

 I think it deserves. 



" Winter, season of death, is the time of the 

 sleep, or the torpor of nature ; insects without 

 life, reptiles without motion, and vegetables with- 

 out verdure. The inhabitants of the air de- 

 stroyed ; those of the water inclosed in prisons of 

 ice; and even the terrestrial animals, in some 

 countries, confined in caverns and holes.'' 

 . I do not think that, in the depth of winter, all 

 the little living creatures were so torpid as they 

 are thus described ; but the author nicely says, 

 afterwards, " The return of the birds in spring is 

 the first signal of the awakening of nature." I 



