west; then
through a glorious autumn all russet and gold on a background of hazy
blue mountains, back to a winter as in the Christmas carol about Good
King Wenceslaus. All this is theory; in reality the weather here, as
elsewhere, is not to be trusted, though, indeed, it is not as fickle as
that of our own dear country. Still, the people cling to their theory
about the climate of the country, and if perchance the theory does not
fit, there is always an "oldest inhabitant" handy to declare the weather
quite exceptional. Why is it that the oldest inhabitant is invariably
the greatest local liar? Is it simply a matter of long life and ripe
experience?

Whatever the climate may be, whatever vagaries the weather may indulge
in, the view from my terrace is always lovely, its subtle beauty ever
new. If I were called upon to say which season shows ancient Prague at
her best, I would say the spring time. Then the orchards on the slopes
are arrayed in virgin white of pear and cherry blossom, with here and
there a blush from apple-trees and a faint glimmer of delicate green
against cool grey of stone walls showing among the purples of trunks and
branches warming into new life under the fitful rays of April sunshine.
The sunshine draws out colour from soaring spires or copper domes of
churches and from the quaint towers and pinnacles of old Prague's former
defences against enemies that came like storm clouds from out of the
west or over the giant mountains to northward. A passing cloud throws
into the shade the middle ground of grouped and red-tiled roofs
overtopped by some stately church, and the terraced gardens that descend
into the harmonies of deep reds and greyish purples which is the
dominant note in the colour scheme of the "Mala Strana," the small side
of Prague on the left bank of the river. Far beyond are the encircling
heights--some wooded, others under cultivation; cloud shadows pass over
them like ghosts of the tragic events that made up the history of
Bohemia and its capital. But the sunshine wins over the clouds and draws
out the strength and glory of Golden Prague.

Summer and autumn bring fulfilment of spring's promise of plenty, with
fruit in abundance. Autumn lingers in red and yellow motley, stoutly
resisting winter's attack until boisterous winds from east and north
send the last leaves shivering to the ground and spread out the city's
winter garb. Then Prague assumes a severer aspect; reds and warm greys
h