...
Ah, that was it. I remembered now. A fortnight ago, when I last came up
this lane by night, it was the flash of the white hawthorn in the starlight
that burst upon me with such a sudden beauty. I knew the spot. It was just
beyond here, where the tall hedgerow leans over the grass side-track and
makes a green arbour by the wayside. I should come to it in a minute or
two, and catch once more that ecstasy of spring.
And when I reached the spot the white hawthorn had vanished. The arbour was
there, but its glory had faded. The two weeks I had spent in Fleet Street
had stripped it of its crown, and the whole pageant of the year must pass
before I could again experience that sudden delight of the hedgerows
bursting into foam. I do not mind confessing that I continued my way up the
lane with something less than my former exhilaration. Partly no doubt this
was due to the fact that the hill at this point begins its job of climbing
in earnest, and is a stiff pull at the end of a long day's work and a
tiresome journey--especially if you are carrying a bag.
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