A MAY -TIDE FESTIVAL 
107 
ground as the young grass feels tlie sun and pushes upward, and 
while the flanks of the hdls burn beneath the level sun like topaz 
laid on chrysolite, the whole vale, in springtide emerald drest, 
gleams with more vivid green because of the blue cobalt of the 
hill backgrounds, whilst these stand out in more wondrous blue 
and purple by reason of the delicate light green or golden leafage 
of the budding sycamore. The daffodil is not yet overblown. 
The blackthorn in the hedgerow is in full beauty of sweet- 
scented foam, and in the gardens shine the rhododendrons’ mass 
of welcome colour. But the feature of woodland beauty is the 
golden spray of the birch that seems to spring and fall like a 
fountain in the valley, and the dainty feathering of the fragrant 
larch upon the fells. In a pastoral country, whose chief hope 
lies with mountain flocks, the vales in May are dappled with 
lambs and filled with the voices of the future rangers of the hills. 
The “ wandering voice ” of the cuckoo finds an echo that is 
unknown in the level midlands, the curlew’s pipe is heard early 
and late, and all day long the chiff-chaff “ pours forth his song 
in gushes ” and the green linnet wheezes and “ zees ” — there is 
no other word to express his note — from the budding apple tree. 
But the joy of May is, as Wordsworth knew and told us, the 
promise of May. All the life and loveliness we see is prelude of 
more to come ; enough is here to make us wish for more : — 
“ Season of fancy and of hope 
Permit not for one hour 
A blossom from thy crown to drop, 
Nor add to it one flower. 
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 
Of self-restraining art. 
This modest charm of not too much 
Part seen, imagined part.” 
One does not wonder that the old neolithic woodmen who, to 
judge by the stone axes we find in this district, dwelt in a thickly- 
forested country, lit their Beltain fires on the fell-tops in honour 
of the God who gave back drapery to the rich woodland. It 
was not the luxury of green light poured through tender leafage 
that appealed to them, rather it was that the veil of the May-tide 
coverts gave security. It would be easier to hide from the foe, 
easier to hunt for meat, and the coming of the leaf meant for them, 
as it means to-day for the nesting birds, surcease of care. But 
their joy in the leaf-time has not died out of our blood. Rather 
our very mingling of Teuton with Celt has given us a love of 
the coming of the leaf in double strength of heritage, so that in 
Dan Chaucer’s time it was not considered beneath the dignity of 
king and noble to go forth with their people “ to bringen home 
the Maie.” The old poet of this English feeling for May tells us 
in his “ Court of Love ” : — 
“ And forth goeth al the courte both moste and beste 
To feche the floures fresh and brannch and blome.” 
The days of king and court going forth, as they did as late as 
the time of bluff King Hal, into the May-tide fields to break the 
