A JOURNAL KEPT IN THE COUNTRY. 199 



work, and the incessant mournful little virelai of the 

 robins, come through the still air. The robins are 

 everywhere, perching suddenly with coquettish friend- 

 liness close beside me, fluttering from under my feet 

 in the walks. This morning I was out early, and 

 after an hour busy with next year's cabbages and 

 lettuces, the prospective labour that refines the daily 

 round of gardening, I heard the church clock chime 

 half-past seven, and gave the half-hour before break- 

 fast-time up to idleness. The sun was just beginning 

 to strike warm on the face, and the earthy, grassy 

 smells of the dew to give way to the honey-scents of 

 the flowers. I idly admired the pink and purple 

 contrasts of the season, as characteristic as is the 

 yellow and white note of Spring. Beside me spikes 

 of rosy hollyhock overlooked a clump of deep crimson 

 phlox : a little further were the light pink of the 

 lavatera and the soft pure scarlet of the Brenchley 

 gladiolus, whose rolled-up buds shake themselves out 

 like little red burgees on the signal halliards. These 

 were the main elements of the symphony ; but half- 

 seen touches of yellow in a distant sunflower, of 

 lavender in a Canterbury Bell unsuspected tones of 

 variously green leaf and pale sky went to make the 

 full concert : for I think we generally do not make 

 sufficient allowance for the reactions of colour on 



