Down the long winding lane, over the
broad meadow, and on the sunny bank by the
way-side, are peeping up, amid the emerald
grass, the gem-like flowers that were the
playthings of our childhood—that lured us,
years ago, through the dewy dell. When we
look at them, we call to mind how our hands
in their first state of chubbiness, or in their
second state of ink and slate-pencil dust,
grasped at the

.   .   .   .   .   "Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty."

When our yet plastic and undeveloped noses
breathed over the

.   .   .   .   .   .   "Violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath."

And when we wore our first gold chains,
made of

.   .   .   .   .   .   "Pale Primroses
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phœbus in his strength."

Then what work have we not made in
childhood with

.   .   .   .   .   .   "the Daisie
That well by reasson men it callé maie
The Daisie, or else the Eye of Daie,
The emprise, and the floure of flouris all."

The daisy is the pet of poets; and, while I
am tagging these snips of verse together, let
us say some more about the "wee modest
crimson-tipped flower"—the

.   .   "silver shield, with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some fairy bold
In fight to cover."

A graceful lady-writer calls the daisy, the
Robin of flowers. I 've an idea. Had she
been as fanciful as Mr. Wordsworth, she
might have added its red breast as amongst
the reasons for her pleasant conceit.

Now I am going on with what I might say,
if I chose, concerning March. The alder
wears her dark wreaths, and the hazel and
willow have hung out their catkins in the
fields. The marsh is gay with the bright
orange-flowers of the marsh-marigold; and
the shady grove and humid bank, with the
pilewort's yellow stars. Before the end of
the month, the leaves of the honeysuckle are
nearly expanded; the garden is beautiful
with the pink flowers of the mezereon; and
the greenhouse, besides the pale narcissus and
the bright camellia japonica, has the brilliant
tulip, and all the rich and graceful hyacinth
array. Leeks flourish in the caps of Welshmen
on St. David's Day; and in the Irish
bonnets, on St. Patrick's Day, shamrock is
planted. David and Patrick are March
saints. Of David we have heard how

.   .   .   "through the press of war
His gallant comrades followed his green crest
To conquest."

As a hint to future commentators, I suggest
a misprint here. Leeks were more likely to
have been written, by poetic license, as green
cress, than as a crest, which we know to be
a thing usually composed of hair or feathers.
The leading act of the life of St. Patrick,
performed on Croagh Patrick, is thus
beautifully narrated by a native minstrel:—

"Och! Antrim hills are mighty high, and so's the
       Hill of Howth, too;
But we all do know a mountain that is higher than
       them both, too:
'Twas on the top of that high mount, St. Patrick
       preached a sermon;
He drove the frogs into the bogs, and banished all
       the vermin."

Then, after March, the noisy boy, comes—
or used to come—April, the crying girl.
Whatever trick she may play us, in behaving
as she ought not to behave, she cannot trick
us out of her great day of tricks; we will be
April Fools! The man who doesn't like to
be a fool, is fit for treasons, murders, and,
particularly, stratagems; he is the very man
to punish on the first of April. "Beshrew the
man," says Elia, "who, on such a day as this,
should affect to stand aloof! I am none of
those sneakers. I am free of the corporation,
and care not who knows it. He that meets
me in the forest to-day, shall meet with no
wiseacre, I can tell him! Stultus sum—
translate me that, and take the meaning of
it to yourself for your pains.   .   .   .   I have
never made an acquaintance that lasted, or
a friendship that answered, with any one that
had not some tincture of the absurd in their
characters.   .   .   .   And take my word for
this, reader—and say a fool told it you, if you
please—that he who hath not a drachm of
folly in his mixture, hath pounds of much
worse matter in his composition." April has
her own small jokes in the way of fool-making.
The prudent father of a family, before taking
an extended walk, looks up into her face for
a hint about the weather. "There 'll be a
severe shower!" says April, with a frown.
So, the father commits himself to walk out
with the family umbrella; April takes to
shining; the sky looks as if there would be
no more rain till Midsummer; and the
umbrella makes the prudent man look like
a fool. Then April has not only fools, but
birds. There is that much over-rated vocalist,
the nightingale. No doubt his night-strain
is unrivalled; because nobody else would think
of playing melodies at midnight, except students
who are learning the trombone, and are
ashamed to practise it when people are about.
The nightingale is all very well; but why not
praise the throstle, and the blackbird, and the
wood-lark? I should like to hear a better
ballad-singer than the robin! As for the
nightingale being crossed in love, and
sentimental in its habits; though

.   .   .   "many a poet echoes the conceit,
And youths and maidens most poetical,