the bue-bells, I glance round me over that,
flowering landscape, I note well through all
the variegated colours of May the wondrous
truth of that verse of the boy-poet Chatterton,
when, depicting Nature in the spring-time,
he writes:

      The meads are sprinkled with a pleasant hue.

For, in spite of the pale lilac of the cuckoo-
buds and the damson-brown of the bee-orchis,
in spite even of the scarlet of the wayside
poppy, and the delicate blue of the little
germander, or wild speedwell, that country-
cousin of the forget-me-not; one prevailing
golden sheen overlays the whole vernal
landscape: broom and gorse upon the wild,
breezy uplands; marigold in the cottage-
gardens; kingcup or crowfoot on the rich
pasture-lands. Hung in tassels above the
hedgerows the pendant spikes or catkin of
the hazel—blooming from the very weeds
below them the honeyed blossoms of the
hemp-nettle. And away in secret places,
fragile tufts of what one poet calls " the
rathe primrose," or, more delicate still,
fairy-like bells, tremulous among their broad
leaves, what another national poet sings of
lovingly as—

      Our England's lily of the May,
        Our lily of the vale!

Overhead, as I loiter back towards the more
habitable regions, the glorious cones of
blossoms making one giant nosegay of the
horse-chesnut—the milk-white and bluish-
pink plumes of the lilac— creaming over
hedge and hawthorn, the abounding
May-flower, oppressive almost at times from its
delicious wealth of fragrance—and yonder,
it may be in the centre of a smooth-shaven
lawn, the floral cascade of the season, when

      Like a fountain, o'er the meadow
      Gold the green laburnum showers:
      Spouting up a glossy column,
      Dripping down in amber flowers.

Fluttering hither and thither all the birds
and insects familiar to orchard and garden-
croft in the spring-time; here the large
white cabbage butterfly, dancing from shrub
to shrub in frequent vacillations; here the
little dun house sparrow, lured by the
increasing warmth from its temporary home
under the eaves to nest for greater coolness
in the plum-tree or the apple-tree. Is my
rural saunter dashed for a brief interval by
a sudden rain-gust, am I not solaced as the
sun comes out again over the sparkling
branches, by the song of that missel-thrush,
who loves best to warble thus in the
blowing, showery weather? But better than
song of bird or gleam of sunshine, what seems
somehow made out of their blending, when I
find myself, at a sudden turn in the pathway,
in the midst of the romp and laughter of the
village urchins, startled for a moment into
silence at my coming (so that they hear for
the first time in the pause the mystical
rebeck of the cuckoo, sounding to them from
the green distance), but returning with
redoubled zest, the next instant, when I have
passed onwards, to their interrupted game
with the golden cowslip-ball, which is for
them in May what the silvery snow-ball is in
December.

Happiest glimpse of the seasonable
influences, however, yet caught in this May-day
ramble, the shy pair I have passed but now,
by sympathy so shyly sauntering by the filbert
coppice. Is it not a melodious re-echoing
still of the charming song of that delightful
rascal Touchstone?

      It was a lover and his lass,
      With a hey, with a ho, with a hey, no nee no,
      And a hey no nee no ni no,
      That o'er the green corn-field did pass
      In spring-time, the only pretty ring-time,
      When birds do sing hey ding, a ding, ding,
      Sweet lovers love the spring.

As I cannot resist presently one momentary
glance after them, while I note the whispering
air of both (the little skirt of russet
fluttering from me the while into perspective),
I think to myself, think I, if, as it happens,
those younger children yet within ear-shot
at their gambols, are unconscious illustrations
of Gray's joyous line—dainty motto for a
vignette!

      We frolic while 'tis May!

these two elder children are no less instinctive
disciples of the philosophy sung thus
quaintly by an earlier lyrist, Edwards, one of
the true Shakespearian song-writers:

      Use May while that you may,
      For May hath but his time;
      When all the fruit is gone, it is
      Too late the tree to climb.

Ending my May stroll in that flood of
melody, first audible in the month of the
May-flowers, I cannot marvel in the least
that this, among all the twelve, has ever had
the peculiar love of those congenial melodists
the poets. I cannot wonder that Miiton
followed delightedly, with blind eyes that
saw clearer and further almost than all others
gifted with keenest vision:

      Zephyr with Aurora playing
      As he met her once a-maying;

that even the gloomy Darwin—that ghoul in
fairyland—breaking for once into a sprightly
measure, sang:

      Sweet May, thy radiant form unfold,
      Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,
      And wave thy shadowy locks of gold:

that — happiest tribute of all—Spenser, enraptured
by the lovely apparition, broke forth
into that boisterous outburst of admiration,
when chaunting: