IT is a bright day in March, with a gentle south-west wind. Sitting
still in the copse and facing the sun it strikes warm. It has already
mounted many degrees on its way to its summer height, and is regaining
its power. The clouds are soft, rounded, and spring-like, and the white
of the blackthorn is discernible here and there amidst the underwood.
The brooks are running full from winter rains but are not overflowing.
All over the wood which fills up the valley lies a thin, purplish mist,
harmonising with the purple bloom on the stems and branches. The buds
are ready to burst, there is a sense of movement, of waking after sleep;
the tremendous upward rush of life is almost felt. But how silent the
process is! There is no hurry for achievement, although so much has to
be done—such infinite intricacy to be unfolded and made perfect. The
little stream winding down the bottom turns and doubles on itself; a dead
leaf falls into it, is arrested by a twig, and lies there content.