The Copse
April 18th.--Sad wintry weather； a northeast wind； a sun that puts out one‘s eyes, without affording the slightest warmth； dryness that chaps lips and hands like a frost in December； rain that comes chilly and arrowy like hail in January； nature at a dead pause； no seeds up in the garden； no leaves out in the hedgerows； no cowslips swinging their pretty bells in the fields； no nightingales in the dingles； no swallows skimming round the great pond； no cuckoos (that ever I should miss that rascally sonneteer!) in any part. Nevertheless there is something of a charm in this wintry spring, this putting-back of the seasons. If the flower-clock must stand still for a month or two, could it choose a better time than that of the primroses and violets? I never remember (and for such gauds my memory, if not very good for aught of wise or useful, may be trusted) such an affluence of the one or such a duration of the other. Primrosy is the epithet which this year will retain in my r

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