xperience, something is always in bloom.
In the Northern United States, it is said, the active growth of most plants is condensed into ten weeks, while in the mother country the full activity is maintained through sixteen.
But even the English winter does not seem to be a winter, in the same sense as ours, appearing more like a chilly and comfortless autumn.
There is no month in the English year when some special plant does not bloom: the Colt's-foot there opens its fragrant flowers from December to February; the yellowflowered Hellebore, and its cousin, the sacred Christmas Rose of Glastonbury, extend from January to March; and the Snowdrop and Primrose often come before the first of February.
Something may be gained, much lost, by that perennial succession; those links, however slight, must make the floral period continuous to the imagination; while our year gives a pause and an interval to its children, and after exhausted October has effloresced into Witch-Hazel, there is an a
e and flower-stalk is a mausoleum of vanished summer, itself crumbling to dust, never to rise again.
Each child of June, scarce distinguishable in November against the background of moss and rocks and bushes, is brought into final prominence in December by the white snow which imbeds it. The fragile flakes collapse and fall back around it, but retain their inexorable hold.
Thus delicate is the action of Nature,—a finger of air, and a grasp of iron.
We pass the old red foundry, banked in witficulty preserved, only about sixty being lost in all. Marvellous to tell, the country-people unanimously agreed afterwards to refer the whole terrific storm to some secret incantations of poor Hogg's literary society aforesaid;
When dark December shrouds the transient day, And stormy winds are howling in their ire, Why com'st not thou? . . .O, haste to pay The cordial visit sullen hours require! Winter will oft at eve resume the breeze, Chill the pale morn, and bid his driving blasts De