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seem to have melted their way, dissolving their glittering veil to come blushing again into sunshine. The white and pink varieties of the Pyrus Japonica are also very beautiful, but have not the rich and glowing splendour of my fairy favourite, which, through the months of late Autumn, Winter, and early Spring, when so few of our garden darlings venture to look upon the dreary earth, clothes the supporting wall or trellis with its cheering and vivid beauty, being, in this respect, more worthy our esteem than most of our foreign acquisitions, which generally require the additional warmth and shelter of the stove or conservatory.
The next gem of my floral chaplet is one of classic fame; one of the many fair flowers around which mythological fable has thrown its quaint legendary garb: even its botanical name brings a dream of romance with it—Narcissus Poeticus. Our own merry, dancing daffodil claims kindred with the Narcissi; and who does not love the daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty?
What a mine of wealth a bank sprinkled thickly with their bright golden crests and waving leaves seemed to us in childhood! And, if only precious as the memories of such innocent delight, we must love them still. Of modern Bards, however great, I have forbidden myself to speak, but what can be more beautiful, in thought, expression, and melody, than these sweet verses of Robert Herrick's?
