HOURS OF SPRING. 15 



tradition of a former world destroyed by a deluge of 

 water, from the East to the West, from Greece to Mexico, 

 where the tail of a comet was said to have caused the 

 flood ; but in the strange characters of the Zend is the 

 legend of an ark (as it were) prepared against the snow. 

 It may be that it is the dim memory of a glacial epoch. 

 In this deep coombe, amid the dark oaks and snow, was 

 the fable of Zoroaster. For the coming of Ormuzd, the 

 Light and Life Bringer, the leaf slept folded, the butter- 

 fly was hidden, the germ concealed, while the sun swept 

 upwards towards Aries. 



There is nothing so wearying as a long frost — the 

 endless monotony, which makes one think that the very 

 fault we usually find with our climate — its changeableness 

 — is in reality its best quality. Rain, mist, gales — any- 

 thing ; give us anything but weary, weary frost. But 

 having once fixed its mind, the weather will not listen 

 to the usual signs of alteration. 



The larks sang at last high up against the grey cloud 

 over the frost-bound earth. They could not wait longer ; 

 love was strong in their little hearts — stronger than the 

 winter. After a while the hedge-sparrows, too, began to 

 sing on the top of the gorse-hedge about the garden. 

 By-and-by a chaffinch boldly raised his voice, ending 

 with the old story, ' Sweet, will you, will you kiss — me 

 — dear ? ' Then there came a hoar-frost, and the earth, 

 which had been black, became white, as its evaporate 1 

 vapours began to gather and drops of rain to fall. Even 

 then the obstinate weather refused to quite yield, wrap- 

 ping its cloak, as it were, around it in bitter enmity. 

 But in a day or two white clouds lit up with sunshine 

 appeared drifting over from the southward, and that 

 was the end. The old pensioner came to the door for 

 his bread and cheese : ' The wind's in the south/ he 



