of Beucephala in
honour of its horses and because of the immutable game-loving
disposition of its people.

CHAPTER XVIII

IN NORTHERN GARDENS

Away from the beaten tracks there are still by-paths where hyacinths
grow in the springtime.--ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE.

Far off in the Southland, it is in the habit of Spring to come lagging
over the land. She is a princess. You can tell it by her manner of
moving, and her fine lady ways. Often, she is greatly bored.

Under the north star it is different. Spring is a wilding horsewoman,
sweet and graceless, pirouetting a-tiptoe and waving to us kisses.

Hush! and hold you still, my merry Gentlemen. You may catch them if
you try, and they are not in the least sinful.

Goldilocks, I call her.

"A young mother," you say, "and no Columbine."

Pray thee have it so, for when this season of seven sweet suns has
begun, she is all things to all men.

What an ado there is when she calls to her flower-children and chides
them to arise and put on their dresses.

Sleepy heads! Sleepy heads!

The vi'lets peer out of their green bed and complain of the cold, and
as for the ferns, instead of expanding into fans of green, they curl
themselves into foolish fiddle heads and beg to finish their dream.

The shy anemone, with flushed face, gets her up first that she may be
with her mother. She is Spring's favourite child, but mark you, the
maiden wears a ruff of fur about her neck, and snuggles into it, just
as the pussy-willow does into his coat of grey.

Those flowers that have butter-pats to heads come on apace. Some there
are who call them dandelions but we shall call them children's gold.

Ah! if flowers would only sing.

How terribly long has been the winter with its tiresome monochrome of
white. Every vestige of colour has been bleached out of the earth like
one would bleach a tablecloth.

By way of solace, our northern Indian paints his face and wears a
scarlet sash as, by the same token, you and I wear poster coats and
purple plumes.

It was recorded a day ago that when our dogs run away from us they
always travel southward. There is no doubt in the world they are
seeking colour.

Over the way from my study-window there is a glass-house where a man
who, aforetime, taught school now grows flowers. The transition is
surely a natural one.

His is the last conservatory on this hemisphere--at least I've heard
tell it is.

He lets me walk up and down its