NEWS OF SPRING 



where I am writing these lines. Here, truly, the flower is the 

 sole monarch of the hills and valleys. The peasants have lost 

 the habit of growing corn, as though they had now only to 

 provide for the needs of a more subtle race of men, who live 

 on sweet fragrance and ambrosia. The fields form one great 

 nosegay, which is incessantly renewed, and the perfumes that 

 succeed one another seem to circle in the dance all round the 

 azure year. Anemones, Gilliflowers, Mimosa, Violets, Pinks, 

 Narcissus, Hyacinths, Jonquils, Mignonette, Jasmine, Tube- 

 rose invade the days, the nights, the winter, summer, spring 

 and autumn months. But the magnificent hour belongs to 

 the Roses of May. Then, as far as the eye can see, from the 

 slope of the hills to the hollows of the plains, between banks 

 of Vines and Olive trees, they flow on every side like a stream 

 of petals flooding the houses and the trees, a stream of the 

 colour which we assign to youth and health and joy. The 

 scent, both warm and cool, but, above all things spacious and 

 heavenly, emanates, one would think, straight from the sources 

 of beatitude. The roads, the paths are carved in the pulp 

 of the flower, in the very substance of Paradise. For the 

 first time in our lives, we seem to have a satisfying vision of 

 happiness. 



[102] 



