the earth, and that sense of exhilaration and
hopefulness which the most exquisite of seasons naturally brings--brings
more strongly perhaps in the youth of a nation, in those earlier stages
of civilization when men are very dependent upon the weather, and upon
the produce of their own particular neighbourhood--brings most strongly
of all to one's own youth, to the light heart, the industrious fancy,
the uncorrupted taste of childhood.

May-day seems to me so essentially a children's festival, that I think
it is a great pity that English children should allow it to fall into
disuse. One certainly does not love flowers less as one grows up, but
they are more like persons, and their ways are more mysterious to one in
childhood. The cares of grown-up life, too, are not of the kind from
which we can easily get a whole holiday. We should do well to try
oftener than we do. Wreaths do not become us, and we have allowed our
joints to grow too stiff for Maypole dancing. But we who used to sigh
for whole holidays can give them! We can prepare the cakes and cream,
and provide ribbons for the Maypole, and show how garlands were made in
our young days. We are very grateful for wild-flowers for the
drawing-room. To say the truth, they last longer with us than with the
children, and perhaps we combine the delicate hues of spring, and
lighten our nosegays by grass and sword-flags and rushes with more
cunning fingers than those of the little ones who gathered them.

For these is reserved the real bloom of May-day! And the orthodox
customs are so various, that families of any size or age may pick and
choose. One brother and sister can be Lord and Lady of the May. One
sister among many brothers must be May Queen without opposition. Those
of the party most apt to catch cold in the treacherous sunshine and damp
winds of spring should certainly represent the Winter Queen and her
attendants, in the warmest possible clothing and the thickest of boots.
The morning air will then probably only do them a great deal of good. It
is not desirable to dig up the hawthorn-trees, or to try to do so, even
with wooden spades. The votive offering of flowers for her drawing-room
should undoubtedly await Mamma when she comes down to breakfast, and I
heartily wish her as abundant a variety as Mr. Cuthbert Bede saw on the
Huntingdonshire garland. That Nurse should have a bunch of May is only
her due; and of course the nursery must be decorated. Long strips of