The gray boughs of the oak were still bare; and the hollies were fresh and bright, though their scarlet berries and Christmas had passed away together. As yet, the banks were uncovered by the various creeping plants, which in June were so luxurious; but the maiden's hair flung down its long green tresses, and every sunny nook had its group of primroses—the primrose, which is spring's second herald.
It is curious to note how gradually the flowers warm into the rich colours and aromatic breath of summer. First, comes the snow-drop, formed from the snows, which give it name; fair, but cold and scentless: then comes the primrose, with its faint soft hues, and its faint soft perfume—an allegory of actual existence, where the tenderest and most fragile natures are often those selected to bear the coldest weather, and the most bleak exposure. This is fanciful; but the whole place was thronged with "fast coming fancies," so fairy-like were the shadows that fell from the pensile branches, so changeful the golden lights that glimmered on the scarcely budding boughs.
