pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">[1]

“Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year.”

—Autolycus’ Song.

Governesses used to tell us that the seasons of the year each consist of three months, and of these March, April, and May make the springtime.  I should like to break the symmetry, and give February to spring, which would then include February, March, April, and May.  It has been said that winter is but autumn “shyly shaking hands with spring.”  We will, accordingly, make winter a short link of two months—an autumnal and a vernal hand—December and January.  It is a little sad for autumn to have to make room for chill November alongside of the happier months of September and October.  But autumn is a season of decadence and cannot justly complain.

The autumnal flowers, which may be allowed to figure as a prelude to spring, are few in number.  My favourite is lady’s tresses (Spiranthes), so called from the spiral twist in its inflorescence, which suggests braided hair.  Gentiana amarella I should like to include, but its flowering-time is from 12th August to 8th September, and summer has the

stronger claim on it.  Other autumnal flowers are laurustinus and ivy.  If we go by the mean date nothing flowers in October or November, and in December only the Christmas rose (Helleborus niger) is recorded by Blomefield.

But the autumn months have a glory of their own which may vie with the brightest hues of flowers.  This great and beautiful panorama begins with the yellowing of the lime-leaves, which may occur as early as 17th August, but on the average is seen on 14th September.  It is followed towards the end of September by a brown tint, showing itself in the leaves of the horse-chestnut.  It is appropriate that these two species, which are not indigenous, [2] should be the first to fade into glory.  But I must not insist on the point, for we see wych-elm leaves fall 24th September, while the date for the common elm is 28th October; and the elm is a foreigner compared to the wych-elm, and retains a mark of its alien origin in not setting seeds.

The syringa (Philadelphus) is another foreigner, which early shows autumnal tints—yellowing on 27th September.  Then follow some native trees: the beech and birch both turning yellow on 1st October, and being followed by the maple on 7th October.  I like the motherliness of the half-grown beech, who refuses to drop her dead leaves in autumn, hoping (as I imagine) that they will shelter her tender leaves in the chilly springtime.  The older beeches give up this anxious care, and

doubtless laugh among themselves over the fussiness of young mothers.  They forget, no doubt, that in the scrub at the feet of their own boles the habit persists.

With regard to the fall of leaves, the sycamore begins to lose them 2nd October; birch and cherry, 8th October; maple and walnut, 12th October; aspen, 13th October; beech and elder, 13th October; ash, 14th October; Lombardy poplar and Virginian creeper, 18th October; honeysuckle, 22nd October; hazel, 26th October; elm, 28th October; whitethorn, 30th October; plane, 3rd November.  Judging by a single observation of Blomefield, the larch is the last performer in the drama of autumn.  It turns yellow on 8th November, and its leaves fall 15th November.

Blomefield [3] records that on 29th November the trees are “everywhere stript of leaves,” so that some sort of colour-drama has been in progress from the middle of September to the end of November.  It may be objected that what has been said of autumn is but a catalogue of names and dates.  And this is true enough; but when we realise the glory of autumnal decadence, it seems (however baldly recounted) to be a fitting prelude to the great outbreak of new life—green leaves and bright flowers that spring gives us.

In Blomefield’s “Calendar” the difference between December and January is exaggerated.  For, as it stands, it suggests that plants know that a new year has begun, and all burst into flower

on 1st January.  But that careful naturalist points out [4a] “all those phenomena which are referred to 1st January, as the earliest date, may be considered as occasionally showing themselves in December of the previous year.”

The plants that bloom in winter, i.e. December and January, are few enough.  The Christmas rose gives us its white or pink flowers in December, and the primrose may flower in the first days of January—indeed, I seem to remember it in Kent before Christmas, but I will not answer for it.  According to Blomefield, the honour of being the first plant to awake must be given to the honeysuckle (Lonicera caprifolium), which unfolds its leaves between 1st January and 22nd February, i.e. on 21st January on the average.  This bold behaviour is all the more to its credit since it is said by Hooker [4b] to be a naturalised plant.

Then follow in order the flowers of furze, hazel, winter aconite (Eranthis), hellebore (H. fœtidus), daisy, and snowdrop; so that the winter flowers make a most pleasant show, and tempt us to raise January to the rank of the first month of springtime—but we must allow the credit to be justly due to winter.  In winter, too, we must be grateful to the ivy of the bare hedgerows shining in the sun, its leaves glistening like the simple jewels of a savage.

With February, we are agreed that spring comes in, but it is a springtime that keeps something of

the graveness of winter: though, when the silver sunshine begins to be decorated with the singing of birds, we must call it spring.

In February, too, the roads are no longer edged with dead white grass, but show the fresh green of wayside plants—cow-weed, nettle, dock, and cleavers.

The trees still stand naked, their leaf-buds waiting for a better season.  I like to think of wintering plants not as being asleep, but rather as silent.  They sing with all their green tongues when spring releases them from the cupboards (which we call buds) where she has kept them safe.

The service-tree is a hardy creature, for its buds are naked and unprotected, like Pampas Indians who are proud of sleeping uncovered, and of seeing, as they rise, their forms outlined in the hoar-frost.  I have only recently noticed the purple tint of alder-buds; [5] and I am reminded of the character in Cranford, who needs Tennyson’s words “Black as ash-buds in March” to teach him the fact.  Some trees show their flowers early.  For instance, the hanging tassels of the hazel, from which the dusty pollen can be shaken out, and the tiny red tufts which are all the female flower has to show.  The alder, too, has a