OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



sheath ; the green corn under the snow ; 

 the lark twitters as he passes. Now 

 these to me are the allegory of winter. — 

 'The Open Air': Out of Doors in Feb- 

 ruary. 



NATURE yields nothing to the 

 sybarite. The meadow glows 

 with buttercups in spring, the 

 hedges are green, the woods lovely ; but 

 these are not to be enjoyed in their full 

 significance unless you have traversed 

 the same places when bare, and have 

 watched the slow fulfilment of the 

 flowers.—' The Open Air ' : Out of Doors 

 in February. 



PERHAPS if the country be taken 

 at large there is never a time 

 when there is not a flower of 

 some kind out, in this or that warm 

 southern nook. The sun never sets, 

 nor do the flowers ever die. There is 



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