Signs of Hope
That was a memorable walk, for the return of the rooks was not the only sign of spring that came my way. Further gales and floods had filled the Weald with open lakes where there should have been spring wheat. The washed-blue sky turned those patches of water to vivid sapphire, and every little puddle in every little rut and hoof-mark was a gem, inviting me to search into its depth for some prognostication of I knew not what ; anything expressive of hope, renewed youth, the apparition ot beauty. The air, too, sparkled, touching the roof of my mouth with a slight sting, like that ot champagne. Nobody can describe such moments, unless it be children ; and children have not the technique.
1 saw the first primroses along the banks of the hedges ; a few wind- flowers and wnite violets, and quite a number or tiny wild strawberries. This last is surely the most modest of all flowers, with its grey-white petals so shy that they hardly touch each other. What a contrast they offer in cnaracter to Inc almost vulgar crowd of coltsfoot 1 saw the following day beside the permanent way on Tonbridge railway-station. The sun was shining there, too, and the great coins of the leafless yellow flowers, wan tneir nairy stalks so thick and sturdy, looked like those artificial blooms mane of enamelled metal wan wnich shop windows are sometimes embellished. An old man was sitting on the platform, coughing persistently. I wanted to leap down, gather a handful of the coltsfoot and offer it to him as a febrifuge for his heated breathing apparatus.
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