THE CALL OF THE WILDNineteen-thirty six has given us a reluctant spring, a niggardly begrudging spring, which lets us have an occasional bright day, but follows it with sombre skies and scouring winds.
Yet in spite of all, the daffodils have come, lighting their bright candles, not only in the cultivated rows but in the grass and on the headlands, and even in the gloomy woods.
Daffodils have a courage and hardiness that warm the heart even more than their exquisite beauty. This year they have been frozen, beaten by ferocious winds, their delicate trumpets filled with snow, but they go on blooming and sending out their delicate fragrance.
Unlike any other flower I know, they grow in loveliness after they are picked. You can bring in a bowlful and think you have all the same kind, just ye
