afternoon was waning, and we must turn our back to the
Quantocks, and take to the road again. Past the church and the manor
house, with its odd little turreted summer-house, or _gazebo_, perched
on the corner of the garden-wall; past a row of ancient larch-trees and
a grove of Scotch pines; past smooth-rolling meadows full of cattle and
sheep; past green orchards full of fruit for the famous and potent
Somereset cider; past the old town of Cannington, where the fair
Rosamund was born, and where, on our day, we saw the whole population
in the streets, perturbed by some unknown excitement and running to and
fro like mad folks; past sleepy farms and spacious parks and snug
villas, we rolled along the high-road, into Bridgewater, a small city,
where they make "Bath bricks," and where the statue of Admiral Blake
swaggers sturdily in the market-place. There we took the train to join
our friends at dinner in Bristol; and so ended our day among the
Quantock Hills.

BETWEEN THE LUPIN AND THE LAUREL

No other time of the year, on our northern Atlantic seaboard, is so
alluring, so delicate and subtle in its charm, as that which follows
the fading of the bright blue lupins in the meadows and along the banks
of the open streams, and precedes the rosy flush of myriad laurels in
full bloom on the half-wooded hillsides, and in the forest glades, and
under the lofty shadow of the groves of yellow pine. Then, for a little
while, the spring delays to bourgeon into summer: the woodland maid
lingers at the garden gate of womanhood, reluctant to enter and leave
behind the wild sweetness of freedom and uncertainty.

Winter is gone for good and all. There is no fear that he will come
sneaking back with cold hands to fetch something that he has forgotten.
Nature is secure of another season of love, of mating, of germination,
of growth, of maturity--a fair four months in which the joyful spirit
of life may have its way and work its will. The brown earth seems to
thrill and quicken everywhere with new impulses which transform it into
springing grass and overflowing flowers. The rivers are at their best:
strong and clear and musical, the turbulence of early floods departed,
the languor of later droughts not yet appearing. The shrunken woods
expand; the stringent, sparkling wintry stars grow mild and liquid,
shining with a tremulous and tender light; the whole world seems
larger, happier, more full of untold, untried possibilities. The a