We almost forgot our discomforts in this enthralling story, and
slept on each other's nice clean shoulders a little, just before the
dawn. And such a dawn! Such infinite softness of air, such dew-
drenched verdure! It is a backward spring, they say, but to me the
woods are even lovelier than in their summer wealth of foliage, when
one can hardly distinguish the beauty of the single tree from that
of its neighbours, since the colours are blended in one universal
green. Now we see the feathery tassels of the beech bursting out of
their brown husks, the russet hues of the young oak leaves, and the
countless emerald gleams that 'break from the ruby-budded lime.'
The greenest trees are the larch, the horse-chestnut, and the
sycamore, three naturalised citizens who apparently still keep to
their native fashions, and put out their foliage as they used to do
in their own homes. The young alders and the hawthorn hedges are
greening, but it will be a fortnight before we can realise the
beauty of that snow-white bloom, with its bitter-sweet fragrance.
The cuckoo-flower came this year before instead of after the bird,
they tell us, showing that even Nature, in these days of anarchy and
misrule, is capable of taking liberties with her own laws. There is
a fragrance of freshly turned earth in the air, and the rooks are
streaming out from the elms by the little church, and resting for a
bit in a group of plume-like yews. The last few days of warmth and
sunshine have inspired the birds, and as Francesca and I sit at our
windows breathing in the sweetness and freshness of the morning,
there is a concert of thrushes and blackbirds in the shrubberies.
The little birds furnish the chorus or the undertone of song, the
hedge-sparrows, redbreasts, and chaffinches, but the meistersingers
'call the tune,' and lead the feathered orchestra with clear and
certain notes. It is a golden time for the minstrels, for nest-