VIII.


The early coming of spring in this happy Devon gladdens my heart. I
think with chill discomfort of those parts of England where the primrose
shivers beneath a sky of threat rather than of solace. Honest winter,
snow-clad and with the frosted beard, I can welcome not uncordially; but
that long deferment of the calendar's promise, that weeping gloom of
March and April, that bitter blast outraging the honour of May--how often
has it robbed me of heart and hope. Here, scarce have I assured myself
that the last leaf has fallen, scarce have I watched the glistening of
hoar-frost upon the evergreens, when a breath from the west thrills me
with anticipation of bud and bloom. Even under this grey-billowing sky,
which tells that February is still in rule:--

Mild winds shake the elder brake,
And the wandering herdsmen know
That the whitethorn soon will blow.

I have been thinking of those early years of mine in London, when the
seasons passed over me unobserved, when I seldom turned a glance towards
the heavens, and felt no hardship in the imprisonment of boundless
streets. It is strange now to remember that for some six or seven years
I never looked upon a meadow, never travelled even so far as to the tree-
bordered suburbs. I was battling for dear life; on most days I could not
feel certain that in a week's time I should have food and shelter. It
would happen, to be sure, that in hot noons of August my thoughts