Then come the hyacinths, every 

 colour, single and double, each colour 

 glowing in a glass as near to its own 

 shade as I can get it. My favourites 

 are the rose-pink and yellow ones, the 

 latter having a tendency to bloom in 

 a ball, instead of lengthening into a 

 tall stem, as one would expect. 



These toll me along till I can see the 

 first flowers in the garden, and then I 

 hurry the old bulbs into good, rich soil, 

 for as they have given to me of their 

 best, I return thanks in the way most 

 grateful to them. 



But, after all, there is nothing to 

 compare with the flowers growing out 

 of doors. Let us take up once more 

 the procession of the spring. 



The hyacinth, quite in contrast to 

 the other flowers of the spring, seems 

 oppressed with a burden of sadness, 

 and bears on its frail petals the notes 

 of grief, recording the sorrow of 

 13 



