92 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



a crescent that almost touches the grim and trickling 

 walls that compass the rest of the dell ; moss and 

 tussocks corrugate its slope like an arrested avalanche, 

 and all among their bubbles the primroses come 

 starting forth in pale bunches. It is just so that we 

 saw them two months ago in a Surrey coppice. The 

 same black bee that flew then is here now ; the willow- 

 wren that sang its descending scale for the first time 

 then is silently hunting here to-day ; the cuckoo calls 

 to us as though with the opening announcement of 

 his arrival. 



Spring lingered delightfully in the south, but once 

 she sets forth on her northward journey she flies with 

 summer hard on her heels. Summer even lies in wait 

 for her, and at her coming breaks out with an 

 accompaniment that drowns the song. Down by the 

 waterfall, whose beauty can charm us by the hour 

 together, the lesser celandine is starring the green 

 rocks. But close to the falling stream the dipper has 

 its nest, woven right in the track of the winter water, 

 and in peril of a sudden freshet. And the dipper is 

 feeding young just above the flower whose coming 

 in most counties precedes even the mating of the 

 robin. On the moor the young grouse are creeping 

 through the heather-stems like shrew-mice, and lying 

 to be trodden underfoot rather than reveal their 

 presence. In the lane we see a dozen little dots 

 threading along under an overhanging fringe of grass. 

 When we stand by them they stop each in some 

 cranny or tuft, and most of them become invisible. 

 But two of them we pick up and admire for a moment 

 as they sit with apparent confidence in the hand. 

 They are young pheasants, so small that we could 



