FALSE DAWN 
There is no year that I can positively call to mind 
wherein the later days of winter, nay, even mid-winter 
itself, have not from time to time suffered a fitful inva¬ 
sion from the hosts of spring. After weeks, it may be, 
of shrewd and biting frost or cold, Niobean rains, or, 
perchance, some monstrous siege of winds like famished 
wolves, you waken to a dim rose of dawn where the 
thrush is singing. Not, it is true, with the full-throated 
ease of the time to be, but tentatively, almost timidly, 
you would say, faint, broken cadences of an unearthly 
sweetness. The air is cool yet infinitely gentle, while 
fresh from great spaces comes up the western wind, 
blowing free through low gold sunlight, the wind of 
dreams, the wind of memories, that every year blows 
youth into the heart with so convincing a touch that 
belief in miracles becomes the easiest matter in the 
world. “ Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne .” Our 
wind is no messenger from beyond the mountains, but 
a visitant from mead and forest and restless sea, bearing 
with it the same intoxication, the self-same disquietude, 
for is it not the air of romance itself, the very breath of 
spring ? All through the garden there is a pleasant stir 
and murmur, a thrill, as it were, of new life. The illu¬ 
sion is perfect. Tree-buds are fuller, glossier; birds are 
making haste about some mysterious business, stealthily 
important, full of secrecy and affairs; the wet lawns are 
greener than graven emeralds. You hardly miss the 
flowers, so clear is the mirage, so potent the magic of 
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