136 GARDENS OF ENGLAND 



of the beautiful primrose -time that comes to 

 us with the return of many a familiar sight or 

 sound or scent, like the soaring song of the 

 earliest nestling lark, the unexpected sigh of 

 the wind in the pine-tops on a still day, the 

 fragrant breathing of sweetbriar after a passing 

 summer shower ? 



No matter where we live on British soil — on 

 chalk or clay or deep-red sandstone — ^the primroses 

 of our own countryside are ever to us the fairest 

 and the best. We look back through the vista 

 of Time perhaps, and see again the pale primrose 

 stars clustering over the dripping clay banks of 

 some well-loved lane hallowed by sacred memories. 

 As we used to wander through the wood at 

 Eastertide and looked into its cool depths, the 

 primroses seemed to be playing at hide-and-seek 

 amongst the mossy stubs of the nut bushes, peep- 

 ing out, now here, now there, from broken 

 stump or knotted root, joining hand in hand 

 in a frolic of joy and mirth. Or it may be that 

 memory brings back some rocky dens where 

 a dimpling brook ran purling between shelving 

 banks, and the pale gleam of the primroses in 

 fitful April days shone out from beneath the grey 

 gloom of overhanging boulders. 



