214 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



The gold of our valley is not really to be so 

 basketed, but every year even the oldest of us is apt 

 to imagine otherwise. "Sweeter unpossessed," yet 

 we really must have one or two of the largest, 

 smoothest blossoms. The first time we begin to 

 doubt whether a basket of primroses may not be less 

 than the highest good, then Eden suffers a serious 

 invasion. 



"... She knows not why, but now she loiters, 



Eyes the bent anemones and hangs her hands. 

 Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, 



Coming the rose ; and unaware a cry 

 Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, 

 Covert and the nightingale ; she knows not why." 



Can it really be that these children, gathering 

 primroses, have no ear for the nightingale? His 

 liquid notes peal and thrill from the straggling 

 thorns that clothe our hillside, as though no one 

 had ever heard such music before. There is not the 

 abandon of the lark's " shower of sweet notes." 

 The nightingale has always something in hand, and 

 he thus requires of the hearer more than the hearer 

 can give. The children very much prefer the sky- 

 lark. They cannot afford the attention that the 

 nightingale needs. You must listen to the nightin- 

 gale, waiting and wondering for what will be the 

 next agony of sweetness, and not feeling surprised if 

 it does not come. How different the lark's : 



"... silver chain of sound, 

 Of many links without a break, 

 All intervolved and spreading wide, 

 Like water dimples down a tide." 



