FLOWERS OF WINTER AND SPRING. 143 
mountains and sent it thundering down into the gullies ; and he 
it was who gave the ring-thrush that liquid note of his. For the 
P'dhn drove up to us from Italy, over fields and fields of snow, 
and at his voice the lazy pines stretched their branches, whilst 
the sap rose once again within them. 
In May the alders break into blossom, and the spruce pines 
are crowned with crimson flowers. Chaffinches are calling to each 
other in the forest. Woodpeckers shout and laugh, and even a 
hoopoe has arrived, but he is only passing through. Golden- 
crested wrens and goldfinches stay with us, and the cuckoo comes 
to tell us about England. The larks are singing in the meadows, 
where there are patches of snow left from yesterday’s storm. 
One evening a swallow came through my open window and 
settled on the curtain pole quite comfortably, tucking his head 
under his wing. He awoke me in the morning with that sw'eet 
and fitful warbling of his ; but he would not stay with me, and 
when the sun was up he passed through the window and out 
into the valley, skimming over the crocus flowers in his rapid 
flight. Good-bye, then, dear swallow ! You will come again 
later — in June, perhaps. 
May 17. — Snow is with us again, for May is not always a 
merry month in the high Alps. Snow and a wind which cuts your 
face till it smarts. There are frosts at night, and the poor sol- 
danellas and auriculas are bowed to the ground. But the chaf- 
finches continue to line their nests with the hair from the tails of 
Swiss horses (how hard must be the beds thus supplied !). The 
breeding season is here, and, in spite of snow or harsh winds, 
birds are singing in the forest. Never sang the thrush more 
persistently than when his throat was wet with snow ; and the 
woodpecker laughed at those mortals who arrayed themselves 
in muffler or grey veil to climb the forest paths — then his head 
was scarlet and he looked so handsome, and spring is spring, and 
comes but once a year ; it is the season for courtship. The 
woodpecker is not one to quake and shiver for a blast of wind or 
a mouthful of snow. 
I would like to say more, but have already trespassed beyond 
the limits of Nature Notes. I have tried to tell of the winter 
among our mountains, and of that Spring whicli is very dear, 
though often sad. Is it the struggle of Nature, perhaps, which 
gives the beauty when it comes a deeper joy ? Is it because the 
air is so keen that the violet has such a powerful scent ? 
C. M. Symonds. 
Davos Platz. 
