FALSE DAWN 
21 
best of all possible ways to wander on such a day as this. 
There are no leaves yet, of course, but as you pass 
through the straight ride that intersects the copse there 
are glimpses of pale primroses in sheltered shallows of the 
ground, small havens that harbour this most faithful and 
persistent flower. While on either hand through the 
tangle of underwood slips the sun from shining twig to 
twig, from slender trunk to trunk, turning the limpid 
moisture which suffuses all to crystalline fires that flash 
or gleam as the wind comes and goes. The fragrance 
of the soil, the subtle colour that is neither brown, nor 
purple, nor grey, but lightly touched to tones of all; the 
leafless stems and branches—leafless and yet so visibly 
alive; the implicit leaf-buds that look as though they 
might unfurl on the instant and reveal their sea-green 
treasures-—is this not spring indeed ? A silver shaft of 
song from the robin strikes its chill sweetness athwart 
the dream that, after all, is truly better than reality, for 
this is a stolen, or rather a purely gratuitous happiness. 
When the spring shall come in due season, who shall 
say what mood she may be in ? Peevish, capricious, 
harsh, as like as not, for all her pretty promises and 
pledges; but this waif from her dominions is gracious¬ 
ness itself. We have not begun to draw on our store 
of legitimate spring days, so grudgingly paid away as 
one group of blossoms follows another into the abyss. 
Regret, reluctance, lingering farewells, these have no 
place in our oasis. To-day is to be devoutly enjoyed; 
to-morrow still to be expected with all the rainbow 
glamour of hope. What, indeed, is there more to be 
desired, and do we not, for the moment, as the old saw 
