The Outpost Vol 1 - The Royal Highland Fusiliers

66 THE OUTPOST.
EDITORI~L . ....,.
SPRINGTIME is delightful any-where, but
spring in Sleepy-Hollow surpasses everything.
The baby-pinkness in the eastern sky,
that heralds the new-born day, is received by a
gentle rustle in the woods, as the people of the
wild turn in their sleep, preparatory to emerging
from their comatose state. The magic of the
spring morning is transmitted to the creatures,
and the "tur-tur-coo" of the wood-pigeon
from his perch in the tree tops, is answered by a
squawk from the cock pheasant in the covert,
calling the attention of his chicks to the
delightful feeling of spring in the air, in the
improviqent way that fathers have, rather than
lead them to the food left handy by the
gamekeeper,
Down yonder on the marsh, the gulls mutter,
fiutter and shuffle themselves awake, either to
start at once on the trail of the early wonn, or
to rise away into the blue and volplane down
again in a series of graceful curves. He earns
the admiration and envy of his spouse who is
sitting patiently on the eggs, or waiting, with
the open-mouthed youngsters, for a share of
lumbricus. A shrill piping nearer the shore
indicates that the snipe is already breakfasthunting
and evidently enjoying the pursuit of
the elusive larva. Further inland, a solitary
peewit is, making his morning toilet, standing
inch-deep in a little pool, presumably admiring
himself, like Narcissus. Just overhead is
another, describing meaningless circles, so close
that the sound of his wings can be distinctly
heard, fdr all the world as if they required
oiling. He emits an occasional homely wail
which seems to embody all the peace and
solitude of the bogs and mosses of Scotland,
The year's at the spring,
The day's at the morn,
_0/1 orning's at seven,
The hillside's dew-pearl'd ;
The lark's on the wing,
The snail's on the thorn,
God's in His Heaven,
A It's right with the world.
RORERT BROWNING.
and give a sense of the security of lonesomeness
to the hen on the speckled eggs in her lowly nest.
On the common, a startled hare jumps from
his fonn in the dew-soaked tangle, but, having
found no enemy in sight, he ambles off at an
easy canter, closely followed by his mate, who,
at this signal, "all clear," has risen from her
cosy neuk not a yard away. Along the dykebacks
innumerable rabbits are nibbling away
heartily at the young grass, oblivious of the
mavis' love-song or the lark's shrill ecstasy,
and takingno notice of the day-old lambs, with
their curly white coats and lanky limbs, who
are curious to know what the grey-brown fluffy
balls are, that eat gra.'ls " just like mother."
Springtime in Sleepy-Hollow is eminently
peaceful. The emerald-green of the pastures,
the regular furrows on the ploughed land, the
kirk on the hill, and the tidy appearance of the
newly trimmed heclges, where the green buds
are just bursting through their brown scales,
all indicate a freedom from disturbance and
diffuse a sense of the pennanence of things,
a sense of the uninterrupted procession of the
seasons. It is impossible to look on such
scenes of rural peace and security without
thinking of the fanus of Belgium and the fair
fields of France, mined and spoiled, pillaged
and L:Lid waste. The Garden of Europe is
blasted, trampled, trenched and seared by the
machinery of war. On Easter Sunday in
Sleepy-Hollow it is easy to believe that" God's
in His Heaven." But what of Flanders,
what of Alsace and the 'Woevre? Spring is a
meaningless word to them now. They must be
avenged. Remember Belgium!
This is the message of Spring, 1915.