XXVII 



JOHN-GO-TO-BED-AT-NOON 



A LONGiSH name for a flower— one of its three 

 names ! After all it is not saying very much ; we 

 have another better, more familiar one with at 

 least six names, and one of them not composed of 

 six words like our John's, but of ten ! 



When it is spring I walk in sheltered places, by 

 wood and hedge-side, to look for and welcome the 

 first comers. Oh those first flowers so glad to be 

 alive and out in the sun and wind once more — 

 their first early ineffable spring freshness, remem- 

 brancers of our lost childhood, dead and lost these 

 many dim and sorrowful years, now recovered with 

 the flowers, and immortal once more with spring's 

 immortality ! 



Do we not all experience a feeling something like 

 that in an early spring walk ? Even a stockbroker 

 or stockjobber knows a primrose when he sees one, 

 and it is a yellow primrose to him too — and some- 

 thing more. A something to give him a thrill. It 

 is as if he met a fairy-like child in his walk who 

 tossed back her shining tresses at his approach to 

 look up into his face with eyes full of laughter. 



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