MARCH.

The hamlet has fixed its roots along the margin of the wide river. Little gardens run down to reach the water's edge. New roadways, irregularly fringed, feel their way into a hinterland of meadows - leaving the centre and heart of the place still on the border of the river. On the far side huge trees stand in rank beyond the sandy towpath. Their branches mingle. At sunset they cast mighty shadows from bank to bank. Peace dreams along the river. The sunless light lies unbroken upon the gentle flood, grows and gleams and paints, even at full mid-day, in soft, low tones. The slow passage of the unfrequent barge breaks the shadows of the trees, sends dark circles filled with pale light writhing across the water, sends faint waves to break with all but noiseless ripple against the little landing-place and leaves the stillness sharpened. The landing-place is empty, the riverside gardens, soft green grass, soft brown sleeping trees, clumps of misty evergreen, stand clothed in silence - the riverside silence, which is a haunted thing. It is never that new birth of stillness meeting you as you break in on the bracken-covered floor of a pine wood where every frond stands full spread and untouched and the only sound is a tiny stir as a startled squirrel leaves the carpet of needles and vanishes up a lichened bole, still less is it the mighty stillness of a murmuring sea. It is akin to the silence of a chamber through whose windows the light shines upon empty chairs.

2

But if you leave the empty silence of the riverside and come away, come from the chill air lying along the margin of the water and penetrate one of the little green gardens, the spell is broken. Here, shining from the brown earth, are crocuses and daffodils, and the promise of tulips. Up against the dull sky, sheeny slimy chestnut buds show their sharp white points. Within a half-curtained window you may see primroses and violets. All the sweet chill things of the early year are here, and here, in the heart of the garden where yesterday the snowflakes lay, stands full summer.

No pale hue, no faint flush of anticipation, but fulfilment at its utmost. Hundreds of spirals of ruddy blossom hang clear from their ripe brown stalks, hang head downwards against grey-green crinkled leafage, hang and taper each to a crimson point. Come near, and gently shake a burdened branch; every dancing bell will sound, a faint, faint, slurring tone; every deep point heavy with closed red buds will sway and swing till the whole bush seems adrip.

With tranquil senses you may breathe the warm full scent of leaf and blossom, the scent of currant time, the time of ripening fruit. And as the challenge of the soft scented bells falls upon the raw air, yesterday's snow-flakes, lying along the lawn, dying into the grey river, are forgotten. You can hear, coming up from the breast of the tide, laughter and song, the thud and creak of straining ears, the swish and fling of water, the faint tinkle of slow-gliding music.