20 
THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
them) hang golden green from the hazels. The spirit 
of the lay flits beside you as you walk, sings in your 
ear, even as Ariel sang to Prince Ferdinand on the En¬ 
chanted Isle. To-morrow may find us in the desert 
once more, beset by harsh blasts from east or north, or, 
peradventure, disconsolately journeying through flurries 
of whirling snow. For which reason alone, were there 
no other, one should make the most of every moment 
spent within the perfumed precincts of this oasis. 
It is almost as though you took notice for the first 
time since the turn of the year of how far the slender 
spears of daffodil and narcissus have risen through the 
moist brown mould; you can trace the long lines, the 
serried squares where they are growing in their thou¬ 
sands with some sensible realization of the miser’s fearful 
joy. So much to spend, and all unspent as yet, you are 
still rich beyond the dreams of avarice, with inalienable 
possession of the promise—promise that is always so 
immeasurably more delightful than fulfilment. 
It is easy to see where the great trumpets of the 
Golden Spur will rise triumphant by-and-by, from the 
colour of their strong lances, the greyest green that ever 
was beside their mellower neighbours. The fantastic 
columbine’s first foliage clusters thickly near the earth 
in iridescent bunches of purple and sharp green; the 
Mary-lilies stand at least six inches high, and the light 
spires of Spanish iris, springing like fields of green corn, 
would almost persuade you, did you not know better, 
that their full flower-time was near at hand. 
Past the pleasaunce, and through the wilderness, and 
so out through a wicket that gives on the coverts is the 
