As I talked to Emily I became dimly aware of a whiteness over the ground. She exclaimed with surprise, and I found that I was walking, in the first shade of twilight, over clumps of snowdrops. The hazels were thin, and only here and there an oak tree uprose. All the ground was white with snowdrops, like drops of manna scattered over the red earth, on the grey-green clusters of leaves. There was a deep little dell, sharp sloping like a cup, and white sparkling of flowers all the way down, with white flowers showing pale among the first inpouring of shadow at the bottom. The earth was red and warm, pricked with the dark, succulent green bluebell sheaths, and embroidered with grey-green clusters of spears, and many white flowerets. High above, about the light tracery of hazel, the weird oaks tangled in the sunset. Below, in the first shadows, dropped hosts of little white flowers, so silent and sad; it seemed like a holy communion of pure wild things, numberless, frail, folded meekly in the evening light. Other flower companies are glad; stately barbaric borders of bluebells, merry-headed cowslip groups, even light, tossing wood-anemones; but snowdrops are sad and mysterious. We have lost their meaning. They do not belong to us, who ravish them. The girls bend among them, touching them with their fingers, and symbolizing the yearning which I felt. Folded in the twilight, those conquered flowerets are sad like forlorn little friends of dryads.
“What do they mean, do you think?” said Leslie.
“They remind me of mistletoe, which is never ours, though we wear it.” Said Emily to me.
“What do you think they say – what do they make you think, Cyril?” Lettie repeated.
“I don’t know. Wmily says they belong to some old wild lost religion –They were the symbol of tears, perhaps, to some strange hearted Druid folk before us.”
“More than tears.” Said Lettie “More than tears, they are so still. Something out of an old religion, that we have lost. The make me feel afraid.”
“What should you have to fear?” said Leslie.
“If I knew I shouldn’t fear,” she answered “Look at all the snowdrops” –they hung in dim, strange flecks among the dusky leaves –“look at them—closed up, retreating, powerless. They belong to some knowledge we have lost, that I have lost, and that I need. I feel afraid. They seem like something in fate. Do you think, Cyril, we can lose things from off the earth – like mastodons, and those old monstrosities –but things that matter –wisdom?”