Nor is it often that we see Mrs. Allingham afield so early in the spring as in this lane scene, where the elms are clothed only in their “ruddy hearted blossom flakes.”[8] Perhaps this absence is due to prudential reasons, to avoid the rheumatism which appears to be the only ailment which the landscapist runs against in his healthy outdoor profession.
Those who have seen the woods of Surrey and Sussex at this time of year know what a lovely colour they assume in the budding stage, a colour that makes the view over the Weald from such a vantage-ground as Blackdown a sea of ravishing violet hues, almost equalling that of the oak forests as seen in February from the Terrace at Pau, which stretch away to the snow-clad range of the Pyrenees—perhaps the most delicately perfect view in Europe. But the day selected for this sketch was evidently a warm one for the time of year, or we should not see that unusual occurrence, an open bedroom window in a labourer’s cottage.
The flowering whin is no index to the season, for we know the old adage—
When the whin’s in bloom, my love’s in tune.
But the catkins on the hazel, and the primroses on the banks, must place it round that elastic date, Eastertide.
These wayside primroses remind one of a strongly expressed opinion of Mrs. Allingham’s, that wayside flowers should never be gathered, but left for the enjoyment of the passers-by—a liberal one, which was first instilled into her by her husband, who wrote verses upon it, from which I cull the following lines:—
Pluck not the wayside flower,
It is the traveller’s dower;
A thousand passers-by
Its beauties may espy.
