i2 4 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



luminous green, with flowers modelled in solid honey. 

 Not so tall and many-flowered as in former years, 

 and surely the cowslips of old were liable to take 

 wing and fly away if you were not very quick to 

 pick them. At any rate, we remember having to 

 run at all our speed, this way and that, in order to 

 pick a good bunch of the finest blooms. They stand 

 still enough, and give us time enough to pick them 

 now. But what memories, what fancies, what revela- 

 tions are called up at the plunging of the nose into a 

 posy of cowslips ! If there is any rejuvenating fluid, 

 it ought to be pressed, with due observance of cere- 

 mony and time and place, from those delicately 

 fragrant stalks. We have always known them as 

 cowslips, and have never heard from the lips of those 

 who habitually use them any of the other familiar 

 names. In Essex they are loved under the name of 

 " paigles," in Cambridgeshire as " beagles," in Here- 

 fordshire, it is said, as " cow-peggles." Are there not 

 also those who call them " gallygaskins," " horse- 

 buckles," " Peter-keys " ? while the staid Scot gives 

 up all attempt to find a concrete name for such 

 beauties, and calls them " sobrach," or delight. 



In the lower part of the meadow is another well- 

 known flower. Whenever we look at it we can feel 

 the cold water oozing in at the gaps in our shoes, 

 as it did when we were wont to pick the " crazies " 

 from their native marsh. We hear again the " pop " 

 with which their hollow stems broke, and yielded to 

 us the great cool heads that have given the flowers 

 the name of " water-blobs." Another name is " mari- 

 blobs," linking them up with Shakespeare's " winking 

 mary-buds," and we have, besides, " king-cups,'' 



