smile, and its homeliness is pleasant as the St. 

 gladness of playing children. Bridget 



It is a herald of Spring that precedes even shores 

 the first loud flute-like calls of the missel- 

 thrush. When snow is still on the track of 

 the three winds of the north it is, by the 

 wayside, a glad companion. Soon it will be 

 everywhere. Before long the milk-white 

 sheen of the daisy and the moon-daisy, the 

 green-gold of the tansy, the pale gold of the 

 gorse and the broom, the yellow of the 

 primrose and wild colchicum, of the cowslip 

 and buttercup, of the copse-loving celandine 

 and meadow-rejoicing crowsfoot, all these 

 yellows of first spring will soon be abroad : 

 but the dandelion comes first. I have known 

 days when, after midwinter, one could go a 

 mile and catch never a glimpse of this bright 

 comrade of the ways, and then suddenly see 

 one or two or three, and rejoice forthwith as 

 though at the first blossom on the blackthorn, 

 at the first wild-roses, at the first swallow, at 

 the first thrilling bells of the cuckoo. We 

 are so apt to lose the old delight in familiar 

 humble things. So apt to ignore what is by 

 the way, just because it is by the way. I 

 recall a dour old lowland gardener in a loch- 

 and- hill -set region of Argyll, who, having 

 listened to exclamations of delight at a rain- 



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