128 MY LIFE AS A NATURALIST , 



expected pleasure ; and though they owed their presence to 

 introduction by man, they harmonised beautifully with their 

 surroundings, and gave a magic touch to the quiet bit of cover 

 in which I wandered on that eventful morning. 



Some scenes one has witnessed are indelibly inscribed upon 

 one's memory, and in Spring, when the Nature lover is met at 

 every step with some new treasure, certain episodes are bound 

 to stand out from the rest, which are really never entirely 

 obliterated. 



Not far away from the two sentinel-like Narcissi, I espied, on 

 the aforesaid Spring day, another sight of unmarketable beauty. 

 I refer to the Wind Flowers, or Wood Anemones. The enthusi- 

 astic observer of outdoor life is so inclined to wax eloquent 

 respecting the particular phase of study he is engaged upon at 

 the moment, that it is difficult to realise what really is his 

 favourite, or most striking, theme ; but to unexpectedly come 

 face to face with a whole wood full of dancing Anemones, so frail 

 and chaste, so graceful and courteous in their stately bow, is 

 one not easily forgotten. 



When the trees and bushes are mostly leafless, a first glance at 

 the Anemones in their countless thousands, coyly curtseying to 

 one another and to us, is apt to give one (and especially an in- 

 experienced footfarer, who is totally unprepared for such a sight) 

 a sudden shock. But the shock, needless to say, is a pleasant 

 one, and when the first symptoms are over, the Nature lover 

 will find it difficult to tear himself away from the quiet acre of 

 beauty which lies all around him in the favourite wood he knows 

 and loves so well. 



In the meadows, too, a rare floral pageant is being prepared 

 for men to gaze upon, and what is equally, if not more, important, 

 for other creatures to feast upon. Our English meadows are a 

 sight for the Gods when presented to us like a cloth of gold by 

 the yellow chalices of the various species of Crowfoot. At such 

 a time, one looks for, and expects to see, the first butterflies 

 toying upon the wing, and the Swallow skimming across the 

 meadow in exhilarating flight. A typical pastoral scene in rural 

 England of the season of which I write. 



Some species of Crowfoot (or Buttercup) do not grow in the 

 meadow, making their homes in the nearest pool, or stream, but 

 those upon land are wonderful examples of colonisation, and, once 

 they have got a firm hold, it is difficult to eradicate them. The 

 Bulbous Crowfoot is especially troublesome in this respect, and 



