horses' heads for honour of the day. Another, which went past in the
wintry weeks of the early year, was drawn by a team wearing the ancient
harness with bells under high hoods, or belfries, bells well attuned,
too, and not far inferior to those rung by handbell men. The beat of the
three horses' hoofs sounds like the drum that marks time to the chime
upon their backs. Seldom, even in the far away country, can that
pleasant chime be heard.

But now the timber is all gone, the ruts are hidden, and the tall spruce
firs, whose graceful branches were then almost yellow with young needles
on the tip, are now clothed in fresh green. On the bank there is a
flower which is often gathered for the forget-me-not, and is not unlike
it at the first glance; but if the two be placed side by side, this, the
scorpion grass, is but a pale imitation of the true plant; its petals
vary in colour and are often dull, and it has not the yellow central
spot. Yet it is not unfrequently sold in pots in the shops as
forget-me-not. It flowers on the bank, high above the water of the
ditch.

The true forget-me-not can hardly be seen in passing, so much does it
nestle under flags and behind sedges, and it is not easy to gather
because it flowers on the very verge of the running stream. The shore is
bordered with matted vegetation, aquatic grass, and flags and weeds, and
outside these, where its leaves are washed and purified by the clear
stream, its blue petals open. Be cautious, therefore, in reaching for
the forget-me-not, lest the bank be treacherous.

It was near this copse that in early spring I stayed to gather some
white sweet violets, for the true wild violet is very nearly white. I
stood close to a hedger and ditcher, who, standing on a board, was