FALSE DAWN 
l 9 
Down in the pleasaunce, as in the wild garden also, 
countless crocuses hold up rich goblets for the sun to fill 
with added lustre. They are clustered very closely in 
liberal groups, star-scattered on the grass—orange and 
saffron, and white with red-gold anthers; imperial 
purple, lilac-stained, and some lavender-striped for all 
the world like an old-time dimity gown, they repay 
with ample interest the forethought that set them in 
their appointed places. So, indeed, do the snowdrops 
after their shyer and less candid fashion, the rare and 
intense purity of their frail bells showing with an almost 
dazzling effect of whiteness against the vivid environing 
green. From the wall of ancient ashen-grey stone 
stretch long straggling trails, in exquisite disarray, of 
yellow jasmine, clear amber florets on smooth jade-green 
rods of a most delicate proportion and an uncompromis¬ 
ing air of stiffness, that charms at the same time by its 
very archaism. It is of a primitive simplicity, that 
vaguely brings to mind the dear dead ladies of Botti¬ 
celli’s limning, together with wafts of song from medi¬ 
aeval minstrels, Minnesinger and Trouvere. Who could 
miss remembering once more that old embodiment of 
the spring’s inspiration—old and new at once, for the 
Vidame de Chartres it was who made the song in the 
beginning, and the master-hand that recast it with 
golden touch is known too well to need naming, 
“ When the fields catch flower and the underwood is 
green”—it matters little that no fields will flower for 
many a day yet, nor that the underwood is still a delicate 
dim tangle of cloudy greys and russets, save where the 
tassels of dusty “ lambs’ tails ” (as country folks call 
