THE END OF WINTER 17 



between the hedges of oak and ash. Now and then 

 shapeless rags of white or snow-grey clouds wander up 

 from the west and for a little while obscure the white 

 mountains of cloud, the blue sky, the silver sun; or the 

 sweet smoke from the fires of hedgers and ditchers rises 

 up against the edge of a copse. The white linen flaps 

 and glows in cottage gardens; the dung carts go by 

 crunching the flints into the mud; and the hoofs and bells 

 of pony traps make a music forgotten since last February. 

 It is only the twenty-second day of February, yet these 

 delights of the soul through the eyes and ears are of 

 spring. The children have begun to look for violets, and 

 the youngest, being the nearest to them in stature and in 

 nature, has found one. There she stands, four years old, 

 with straight brown legs, her face clear and soft but 

 brown as a new hazel nut, her hair almost of the same 

 colour and paler where the sun has bleached it round 

 her temples and falling over her cheeks and neck; and 

 through it shine eyes of a deeper brown, the hue of the 

 most exquisite flints. The eyes shine, the teeth shine 

 through the ever parted long red lips, the chin shines, 

 the brow shines most of all with a lustre that seems to 

 come from the joyous brain behind. 



She is beautiful and straight as the July corn, as the 

 ash tree standing alone by the stream. She is fearless as 

 fire, bold and restless as wind, clear-hearted, simple, bright 

 and gay as a mountain water, in all her actions a daughter 

 of the sun, the wind and the earth. She has loving looks 

 for all. From her fair broad naked foot to her gleaming 

 hair she is, to many, the dearest thing that lives. 



Beside her plays a dog, with lifted ears, head on one 

 c 



