71 
I thought that my pen could give a shadow of the 
reality, I should feel tempted to tell of distant hills, 
purple tints, and meadows of emerald green ; but con- 
scious of my inability to do justice to the subject, I 
leave it to be painted by the imagination of those who 
may glance at these pages. After treading a some- 
what steep field-path, our steps, that hâve so long 
lingered, reach the wood, We could almost fancy now 
that Spring 
“ Parent of beauty and of song, had left 
Her mantle, flower embroidered, on the ground.” 
The primrose, violet, 
“ The trim oxalis with her pencill’d flower,” 
with many others, unité in enchanting the sight of 
those who love the works of nature. And amongst 
these, the fairest and the most abundant, droops the 
flower, upon which this, though a very rambling one, 
professes to be a chapter. Here 
“ Anémones weeping flowers 
Dyed in winter’s snow and rain. 
Constant to their early time, 
White the leaf-strewn ground again 
And make each wood a garden then.” 
Clake. 
