tufts of a reddish purple, and others of the purest white, as some
accident of soil affects that strange and inscrutable operation of
nature, the colouring of flowers. Oh how fragrant they are, and how
pleasant it is to sit in this sheltered copse, listening to the fine
creaking of the wind amongst the branches, the most unearthly of
sounds, with this gay tapestry under our feet, and the wood-pigeons
flitting from tree to tree, and mixing the deep note of love with
the elemental music.

Yes! spring is coming. Wood-pigeons, butterflies, and sweet
flowers, all give token of the sweetest of the seasons. Spring is
coming. The hazel stalks are swelling and putting forth their pale
tassels, the satin palms with their honeyed odours are out on the
willow, and the last lingering winter berries are dropping from the
hawthorn, and making way for the bright and blossomy leaves.



THE WOOD.

April 20th.--Spring is actually come now, with the fulness and
almost the suddenness of a northern summer. To-day is completely
April;--clouds and sunshine, wind and showers; blossoms on the
trees, grass in the fields, swallows by the ponds, snakes in the
hedgerows, nightingales in the thickets, and cuckoos everywhere. My
young friend Ellen G. is going with me this evening to gather
wood-sorrel. She never saw that most elegant plant, and is so
delicate an artist that the introduction will be a mutual benefit;
Ellen will gain a subject worthy of her pencil, and the pretty weed
will live;--no small favour to a flower almost as transitory as the