126 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



given up a purple livery, and cannot get rid of the 

 tell-tale blue blood. We like our wood-sorrel in the 

 sun ; we like it none the less in the rain. When 

 every blade of grass in this lane holds a dewdrop, 

 none holds them half so prettily as the half-closed 

 blossoms of the wood-sorrel. There is no need 

 wholly to close for an April storm. When fire 

 flashes from liquid diamonds all along the hedgerow, 

 again the wood-sorrel is easily queen of the lane. A 

 picture of April should show just a yard of this bank, 

 with the fairy cups laughing away the jewels of the 

 last shower, and opening their faces to the next sun- 

 bath. No need and no room for the conventional 

 fairies. You can see them peeping and frisking from 

 every muslin skirt of the wood-sorrel. 



