The glory of an English spring—in spite of the liquid
amari : the frost and east wind—has seldom been more inspiring. Linnaeus would have been on his knees to the gorse on the commons. George Meredith would have justified his loud phrase, " the shouts of primrose banks." Tennyson would have been coining his polished epitomes of description of lime and ash and larch buds, not to mention the crest of lapwings who are calling and tumbling over the fields through the length and breadth of the land. The chiffehaff and wheatcar and—it is alleged—the swallow have come and the " mounted thrush " sings till the light has faded in the west. The tilth has been ideally dusty and the lambs flourish exceedingly. If he could disregard the market, the farmer would be as merry as the holiday maker.
W. REACH Tuonns.
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