“The gorse is yellow on the heath,
The banks with speed-well flowers are gay,
The oaks are budding, and beneath
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
The silver wreath of May.”
“I hate to see those violets a-peeping on the banks,” said old Mark to the huntsman, one morning, “and always did.”
“Why so?” asked Will.
“Because they are a sure sign that hunting is drawing to a close,” replied our feeder.
“Yes, yes,” rejoined Will Sykes. “True enough. When the speed-well flowers begin to show,” continued he, “we may be certain that the season’s almost at an end.”
“Shall we kill a May fox?” inquired Mark, for he always coupled the we in all relating to us and our doings.