22 THE BIOLOGY OF THE SEASONS 



swifter than any swallow. Yesterday we heard him in the 

 glen, good-humouredly tossing a naughty cuckoo's tidings 

 to one of her many lovers ; to-day he roams by the lake- 

 side, and sets the daffodils dancing. Their exuberance and 

 gracefulness are typical of the. Spring, as is their " abandon- 

 ment " when the breeze caresses them, and some are near 

 enough the water to be mirrored there. 



But Pan's pipes are not always merry. He sighs eerily 

 through the gorge and among the crags, where Boreas, 

 in the winter, so ruthlessly slew Pitys, whom Pan loved. 

 What a terrible destruction that was ; acre after acre of 

 lusty trees, brought to the ground, like legions before some 

 inevitably victorious, because continuous, horde of bar- 

 barians. We are remembering some of the Perthshire 

 woods, after the terrible storm that swept the Tay Bridge 

 away. 



See the God : who ever did ? But do we not catch in 

 these floating spider-webs the fringe of his flowing robe ? 

 Men saw it of old, for they called it Godsamer. 



It is difficult to distinguish the various voices in the 

 Spring medley, and our myths are apt to get mixed ; now 

 it is Pan, and again it is the Pied Piper who gathers life 

 in his train ; now it is Zephyrus playing with Chloris, and 

 again it is Orpheus, whom none can resist. But the facts 

 are plain, and that is what most concerns us ; the birds, 

 who went forth before the winter, changing their season 

 in the night, and " wailing their way from cloud to cloud 

 down the long wind," have returned rejoicing with Spring 

 in their voices. Whether it be the naughty cuckoo, who has 

 hoaxed all the poets, or the dove, who is morally not 

 much better, or the virtuous stork on the roof-trees, or the 

 nightingale melodious, or the lark at heaven's gate every- 

 where from the orchestra which gathers strength every 

 day, we hear but one motif, <( Hither, my love, here ; here 



