oing its best to conform to its normal
conditions of colour. Numerous instances might be adduced of its
changing from black to gold, in obedience to chemical law. 'Peroxide of
hydrogen!' says the cynic. 'Beauty!' says the lover of art.

And it might be argued, in a world of inevitable compromise, that the
damage done to the physical health and texture of the hair thus playing
the chameleon may well be overbalanced by the happiness, and consequent
increased effectiveness, of the person thus dyeing for the sake of
beauty. Thaumaturgists lay much stress on the mystic influence of
colours; and who knows but that, if we were only allowed to dye our hair
what colour we chose, we might be different men and women? Strange
things are told of women who have dyed their hair the colour of blood or
of wine, and we know from Christina Rossetti that golden hair is
negotiable in fairyland--

'"You have much gold upon your head,"
They answered all together:
"Buy from us with a golden curl."'

Whether Laura could have done business with the goblin merchantmen with
an oxidised curl is a difficult point, for fairies have sharp eyes; and,
though it be impossible for a mortal to tell the real gold from the
false gold hair, the fairies may be able to do so, and might reject the
curl as counterfeit.

Again, if in the vegetable world green almost universally colours the
leaves, yellow has more to do with the flowers. The flowers we love best
are yellow: the cowslip, the daffodil, the crocus, the buttercup, half
the daisy, the honeysuckle, and the loveliest rose. Yellow, too, has its
turn even with the leaves; and what an artist he shows himself when, in
autumn, he 'lays his fiery finger' upon them, lighting up the forlorn
woodland with splashes--pure palette-colour of audacious gold! He hangs
the mulberry with heart-shaped yellow shields--which reminds one of the
heraldic importance of 'or,'--and he lines the banks of the Seine with
phantasmal yellow poplars. And other leaves still dearer to the heart
are yellow likewise; leaves of those sweet old poets whose thoughts seem
to have turned the pages gold. Let us dream of this: a maid with yellow
hair, clad in a yellow gown, seated in a yellow room, at the window a
yellow sunset, in the grate a yellow fire, at her side a yellow
lamplight, on her knee a Yellow Book. And the letters we love best to
read--when we dare--are they not yellow too? No doubt some disagreeable
things are report