PRIMROSES 



IT is 



Whan that Aprille with his showres soote 



The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote, 



but his cold wind is still a- blowing. 



I have wandered over a wind-swept stretch of 

 grassy banks and fields, gradually ascending until the 

 turf has put on its fine wiry hill-dress, very diiferent 

 from the young green meadow grass or the rank lush 

 growth of low-lying land. How often we are reminded 

 that grass is a water-loving plant, how green are the 

 valley meadows, but how soon a short summer drought 

 has ' burnt ' the hill, and the farmer says that ' keep ' 

 is scarce! The velvet lawn is patchy and brown, the 

 landscape becomes uninteresting, our garden is a 

 desert and for a moment we almost forget ourselves 

 and whisper that the burning sun is an enemy ; but 

 when the water-pots of heaven flow the change 

 has come ; as if by magic, the grass, the earth are 

 green again. 



