browse, and at the top of the bush where animals cannot reach the leaves are smooth.  The hazel is in such a hurry to flower and set its seeds that it cannot wail until Spring has come; it gets its catkins ready in the winter time, when they are to be seen looking rather like stiff brown sausages, growing in little clusters on the bare twigs.  A few warm sunny days in February, or even in January, will encourage some of the impatient catkins to grow and show the bags of yellow pollen tucked away beneath their tiny brown scales.  There is no sign of the sturdy oak awakening to life.
All through the cold dark days of winter, our little feathered friends of the country‑side have had a hard time, but birds are brave, cheery little folk, and when, at last, Spring is on its way, who is so happy and joyous as they?  Some young lambs are seen in the fields.
Buds are to be seen on the ash, beech, chestnut.  I found lichen on a rock, and some bracket‑fungus on a tree trunk.  A grass which I found has been identified as a hairy brome.  To‑day I discovered a hole in the bank of the river; it was stuffed up with grass which was undoubtedly old.  I have searched in vain for butterfly pupae and eggs.
Mist—and more mist.
Going to my “beat” dressed in overcoat, thick scarf, and wool gloves, I found a hazel nutshell which was empty.  In its side was a neat small round hole.  The nearest hazel tree is about fifty yards away.  I have never seen any squirrels here.  Buds higher up in the trees open earlier than those which are on the ground.  There is no sign of life in the river yet.  To‑day I saw an early flower, which looked somewhat like a celandine; it was in very poor condition.
Snow has fallen, and the air is crisp and cold; it is freezing hard.  There is no sign of life; I have not even seen birds; plant life seems to have made no progress since I was here last.  It has been thawing for some days.  Everything in the wood looks fresh.  The level of the river is falling; clean silt is left by the bank.
Lower down, where the river is flanked by mossy stones, and where the water bubbles in a cauldron formed by the banks narrowing, there are to be seen hundreds of little red buds peeping from a fresh green living carpet of moss.  For the last few days there has been no visible progress made; bad weather has returned, and plant life seems to be waiting for the arrival of Spring,—that season of birth and awakening, when nature, after the winter months of rest, is restored to new and vigorous life.  I came home after this expedition, feeling pretty disgusted with the weather.
The weather is fine once more; at last it looks as if Spring has really come to stay.  The small red buds, which I have noted in another part of this diary, are sprouting their peculiarly long heart‑shaped leaves, and some have already grown to a height of 18 inches.  Birds have started nesting, and the air is filled with their song.
The weather is a fruitful theme from March to May, but there is much also to engage attention in the months following.  The days are growing longer, frost is disappearing, buds are swelling and opening, sap is flowing in the trees, venturesome bees are buzzing, and birds moulting.
May, June, and July conspire to furnish a world of material to attract and interest the nature lover.  There is the germinating of the seeds, the unfolding of leaves, the opening of flowers; the change in form of the grasshopper, the butterfly, the frog; the building of nests, the swarming of bees.
A. Capstick  (Va).