THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
false dawn. And even flowers are not wanting, multi¬ 
tudes of small gold heads have shyly thrust themselves 
up through the dark earth, wrapped closely about in 
their green hoods, which, as the sun grows warmer, 
they will fling back to do service as jaunty fringed capes. 
Like sunlight turned to blossom seems this singularly gay 
and ingenuous young child of the year, the year’s first 
flower that never sees the spring. And yet what more 
gracious manifestation of the ways of spring could be than 
this ? So after all the winter aconite has its little day. 
The frost has gone back to his stronghold, and though 
this manoeuvre may be but a feint, a retreat to strengthen 
the next attack, we are grateful for the armistice that 
comes in so fair a form. Drift on drift of delicate, 
aerial grey cloud piled up to the over-arching dome of 
palest pearl, have melted away, while the luminous rift 
that marked the lair of the silver February sun has 
widened, dissolving into a glory of gold. 
Spring’s own speedwell blue, sown with white cloud 
islands, has taken possession of the skies, and the heart 
of the garden rejoices and is glad. High on the topmost 
silver twig of the leafless walnut tree the thrush has taken 
up anew his wondrous tale; his notes drop through the 
soft air like falling rose-petals, while a little below, with 
sedulously studious air and head poised in earnest atten¬ 
tion sits his satellite, a plump and glossy starling, whose 
dark habit takes the sun in sombre iridescence. He is 
trying his hardest to absorb the lesson of the master, 
and, considering well his vocal limitations, we shall find 
in time to come, to no mean purpose. He at least 
appears to love the highest when he hears it. 
