APRIL.

THE month of April is proverbial for its fickleness; for its intermingling showers, and flitting gleams of sunshine; for all species of weather in one day; for a wild mixture of clear and cloudy skies, greenness and nakedness, flying hail and abounding blossoms. But to the lover of Nature, it is not the less characterized by the spirit of expectation with which it imbues the mind. We are irresistibly led to look forward, to anticipate, with a delightful enthusiasm, the progress of the season. It is one of the excellent laws of Providence, that our minds shall be insensibly moulded to a sympathy with that season which is passing, and become deprived, in a certain degree, of the power of recalling the images of those which are gone by; whence we reap the double advantage of not being disgusted with the

deadness of the wintry landscape, from a comparison with the hilarity of spring: and when spring itself appears, it comes with a freshness of beauty which charms us at once with novelty, and a recognition of old delights. Symptoms of spring now crowd thickly upon us; however regular may be our walks, we are daily surprised at the rapid march of vegetation, at the sudden increase of freshness, greenness, and beauty; one old friend after another starts up before us in the shape of a flower. The violets which came out in March in little delicate groups, now spread in myriads along the hedge-rows, and fill secluded lanes with their fragrance. In some springs, however, though most abundant, yet, perhaps, owing to the dryness of the weather, they are almost scentless. The pilewort, or lesser celandine, too, is now truly beautiful, opening thousands and tens of thousands of its splendidly gilt and starry flowers along banks, and at the feet of sheltered thickets; so that, whoever sees them in their perfection, will cease to wonder at the admiration which Wordsworth has poured out upon them in two or three separate pieces of poetry. Anemonies blush and tremble in copses