140 MY LIFE AS A NATURALIST 



brought magic to bird, beast, insect, and plant, to man it meant 

 hope and the upward look. Nature was eventually more lavish 

 than ever before in my lifetime, even though the Blackthorn, 

 usually associated in our minds with February or March, did not 

 first come into blossom until May 5th, when the Maythorn itself 

 is, as a rule, due to crown the hedgerows with its wealth of 

 flowers. The Blackthorn was surely never finer than during 

 1917, when, for the most part, the milk white bloom appeared 

 with the leaves, a rare occurrence in rural England worthy of 

 note. 



The Oaks burst into flower and leaf in a single night, and my 

 favourite nooks, that wore such a desolate appearance earlier on, 

 were transformed into green alleys, along which it was again 

 sheer delight to wander. It really seemed as if Nature was deter- 

 mined to give of her superbest, to temporarily threaten failure, 

 and then, having tried our faith, she sent forth a hasty summons 

 to all her creatures to stir from their long Winter sleep, and make 

 the old Earth glad again. 



I cannot keep pace with the magic of Spring. It is all too 

 vast, too absorbing, for one to assimilate, so great is the rush that 

 takes place when this genial Fairy arrives with her fair courtiers. 

 I know not which way to turn for fear of missing some newly- 

 risen wildling, and there must be some limit to individual effort. 



Nature has taught me something of the magic influence of 

 the Spring-cleaning of the countryside, of Tier law of hygiene. 

 I seem to realise what we owe to the prince of Spring cleaners, 

 the sun, when it penetrates into the darkest corners of the earth, 

 and makes them beautiful, but it all takes place so stealthily 

 that I am mystified at this yearly resurrection. I perceive the 

 crafty seedlings clothing a hedgeside, or waste place, with their 

 newborn leaves, I see the catkin-bearing trees with their com- 

 plement of flowers before the leaves appear. This is an example 

 of unselfishness, a self-imposed sacrifice to benefit the race rather 

 than the individual. I watch a favourite hedgerow renew its 

 fresh green livery. Its coat is, at first, a mere patchwork, as 

 little flushes of life appear here and there, but the full garment 

 is worn before one has time to realise that the greatest magician 

 in the world has taken the stage, and is continually deceiving 

 the astonished audience as to exactly what is to happen next. 



I go to my favourite meadow. I stoop to notice at closer 

 quarters the first Daisy-flower of the year. Then, when I can 

 place my outstretched fingers over seven of them at once, I 



