THE SEASON OE BUTTERCUPS. 
37 
cluster round their knees; and then watching the amber 
bars of the east, as the old sun climbs the slopes of 
Heaven, so wink and blink in the glare of the sunlight, 
that tears start from their eyes, and form thousands of 
yellow drops which take root on every spray and twig, 
and form their summer coat of leaves. Beautiful, fresh 
season! sanctified at thy shrine of flowers by all the 
little birds that woo and wed in the brown branches; by 
all the new buds which break into emerald greenness ; by 
all the dreamy bees which sail singing after luscious 
honey; by all the milch kine that breathe a “ smell of 
dairy,” and wallow, knee-deep in the new grass; and 
by every milkmaid whose cheek blushes with the rose of 
health, wdiose breath is ever like the meadowy breeze of 
June, and who “ makes her hand hard with labour, and 
her cheek soft with pity.” 
Spring is the Season of Buttercups; it is the season 
also of bursting buds and germinating seeds. Eirst, we 
have troops of snow-drops and flame-like crocusses, 
varied here and there with the bright yellow of the 
winter aconite, and crowned with the iron leaves of the 
butcher's broom. Then come the pale primroses “that 
die unmarried,” sprinkling the hedges with sulphur; 
violets with breath as sweet as from an angel's 
mouth: — 
“ As if Nature’s incense-pans had spilt, 
And shed the dews i’ the air.” 
Coltsfoot, the emblem of maternal care; the rare whitlow 
grass, both white and yellow, so small that they seem like 
legacies from the fairies, who perished when Eaith fled 
