HOMEWOOD 191 



Till the field is so fill'd with grass and flowers 



That wherever, with flashing footsteps, fall 

 The sweet, fleet, silvery April showers, 



They never can touch the earth, which is 



Cover'd all over with Crocuses, 

 And the clustering gleam of the Buttercup, 

 And the blithe grass blades that stand right up 

 And make themselves small, to leave room for all 



The nameless blossoms that nestle between 

 Their sheltering stems in the herbage green ; 



Sharp little soldiers, trusty and true, 



Side by side in good order due ; 

 Arms straight down, and heads forward set, 



And saucily-pointed bayonet." 



Thus Owen Meredith sings in his beautiful poem " The Thistle," 

 a flower's ballad which I commend the reader to become intim- 

 ately acquainted with at the earliest opportunity. 



I notice, as I pass on my way rejoicing, that the rich golden 

 catkins of the male Sallow-bush on the right of the wood, in the 

 clearing made to receive the home, have now departed, and the 

 plant is in full leaf, but, on the opposite side of the drive, a mass 

 of yellow Broom is afire with glory, and lights up the place in 

 which it flourishes with matchless beauty. 



The Anemones, which I stooped to caress on my last visit in 

 April, have lost their fragile sepals (there are no petals), but I 

 am able to discover the head of dry seeds which I find, on exam- 

 ination, are easily detached, and promise well for another season 

 yet to be. There is a sudden disturbance of this quiet Sabbath 

 hour, for a pilfering Jay darts across my green pathway, followed 

 by a screaming Thrush, the latter much distressed because the 

 former had purloined one of its callow young. The thief ! 



The snaky heads of Bracken are craftily unfolding and adding 

 a new grace to the woodland vista at my feet, and the delicate 

 leaves of the Wood Sorrel a reveller in damp, shady places 

 are spread wide open after closure during the night hours. 



The Wild Cherry has by leafy June shaken off its full bridal 

 garments and is now in fruit, but its leaves are fresh and green, 

 and appear intact. The Hornbeam's leaves, however, are all 

 more or less riddled with holes, sure evidence that there are hosts 

 of larvae here which find the leaves of this plant suitable to their 

 " taste." I pass on my way enchanted, a suitable word to employ, 

 because, near by, the Enchanter's Nightshade is fast making 

 headway, though, let it be written, I have never been able to 



