THE MAGIC OF THE SEASONS 143 



its Winter retreat, and to accompany it back again to the Lome- 

 land. I do not understand how these feathered wanderers find 

 their way unaided from pole to pole. I know not how the familiar 

 Swallow, which I ringed last year, should be able to return to its 

 old haunt, when, in the meantime, it had journeyed as far away 

 as Natal, to pass the Winter days. 



I listen to a Mistle Thrush. His song is doubly welcome now, 

 when so few birds are singing, but his notes proclaim both message 

 and mystery. I cannot elucidate the strange fascination of this 

 bird music, each species with call, cry, or love-song to itself, 

 and I find myself always looking forward with abundant hope, 

 never wearying, and yet unsatisfied. 



I witness the solicitude of parent birds for their young, I view 

 their homesteads, I observe their laws of morality and cleanli- 

 ness, and I am at a loss to ascertain the inner meaning of it all. 

 And yet I watch the same succession year by year with unabated 

 vigour. The Cuckoo is calling within a hundred yards of the 

 open study window as I write, but its wandering voice never 

 fell so pleasantly upon my ears as on this magical May evening. 

 Last night, and during the early hours of this morning, the 

 thunder crashed, vivid lightning lit up the trees and bushes as 

 I have never witnessed before, and the gentle rain from Heaven 

 descended upon the parched earth. Through it all the Cuckoo 

 courageously told his plaintive tale, and ascending Larks were 

 face to face with Nature's loud artillery at break of dawn, still 

 buoyant and undismayed. 



I saunter in my garden when the early flowers are due to warn 

 us of Spring magic. I note the first green dagger of the Daffodil, 

 I further observe the first plant in crumpled bud, and then the 

 first signs of yellowing. I look forward with pleasant anticipa- 

 tion to such a Spring as I have never known, and to the Daffodil's 

 awakening. I lovingly caress the first venturesome blossom, 

 then another, but, presto, with the advent of the sun, soft skies, 

 and balmy air, I find my border goldened with the dear, dancing 

 blossoms, and in a few days they have come and gone. They 

 will return to cheer me another Spring, but that has yet to be. 



I watched the first Pear blossom open its dimpled eyes one 

 May morning, but before I could realise it, or keep pace with the 

 magic of it all, the whole tree was bridled with flowers, and now 

 they, too, have departed all too soon. 



I walk leisurely along my little rows of cordon Apple trees. 

 It seems but yesterday when I pruned them to encourage the 



