THE WIND FLOWERS 



ALL the morning the snow has been sifting down, till 

 the greenest of the grass is in aspic, and only the 

 long grey blades give colour to the fields. Snow- 

 scuds have obliterated the other side of our narrow 

 valley, and the black shadow of discharging clouds 

 has deepened the wintriness of the picture. But 

 now, as though by magic, the clouds have drawn 

 away and are skirmishing on the distant hills ; the 

 snow-scuds have ceased, the sky is veined with blue, 

 and the sun, breaking through, turns our dim valley 

 actually into a vision of rosy loveliness. The snow 

 is still there, and the black trees show white skeletons ; 

 but the eye is caught before it reaches the grey of 

 the under-world by the blossom-crowned elms. We 

 have seen the maze of twigs thickening as the tips 

 swelled for many weeks past, but not till to-day 

 have the madder-pink blossoms responded as they 

 do now to this sudden gleam of sunshine. 



The elm blossom is seldom seen at close quarters, 

 and by thousands upon thousands of us not all. The 

 rosy clouds of the elm tops in March are certain to 

 charm those who look at them, but few are willing to 

 give the tiny multitude the name of blossom. Only 

 when the woodman has thrown one of the great 

 So 



