WILD GREENHOUSES 



THESE howling winds of March are a peremptory 

 veto on the twelve daisies under one foot that make a 

 spring. You can almost see the grasses shrink as the 

 sun goes in and the rasp of the wind is drawn across 

 the field, wilting adventurous heads that stand more 

 than an inch out of the herbage. If worse is possible, 

 it is when great gouts of hail or rain, icily white, come 

 thudding down. The very rooks now nesting in the 

 vicarage elms are buffeted up and down in the wind 

 till they battle behind the larch wood and leave the 

 scene to entire desolation. 



But it needs only a few tree trunks to shut out the 

 devastating wind and make a haven of peace within 

 the wood. The sun may enter but the wind may not. 

 The birds that have been driven from the field are 

 here, quietly foraging in the dead leaves of last year. 

 The leaves of the year to come are striking out boldly 

 in many a favoured spot where a holly bush weaves 

 an extra screen, or a dip in the ground makes a basin 

 of sunshine which no wind can stir. The honeysuckle 

 puts out its leaves here, though in the hedges of the 

 field it has the prudence of the other trees. The 

 elder is becoming so well furnished that, unsatisfactory 

 as its boughs are, the birds are taking more than a 

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