Thus I have a Washington of my own, dear friends. I never find it till some March day, when in walking down the Capitol grounds I discover that the shining runlets on either side of the Avenue have broken loose and are racing free through their sluices of stone, and that all the crocuses in the broad beds under the trees are pushing their little yellow noses out of the ground. To be sure, they almost always draw them back again to get them out of the snow which falls after; nevertheless on that day I find my Washington. Then it is, that just as the grey lenten veil has covered and extinguished the gay season of the “German,” we come unaware upon another Washington, which I vainly essay to portray for you. My season is not fashionable. No portrayer of costumes is “liberally paid” by “the most enterprising of publishers” to describe the transcendent suit which decks this season of mine. _My_ Washington has no chronicler. The scribes are all so busy abusing the Capitol, depicting its follies and its crimes, that, though they have eyes, they see not, and ears, they hear not, the sights and sounds of this other Washington—fair Washington, outlying, above and beyond all. If I could only paint for you the fathomless purples in which the hills enfold themselves, the wide glimmering rosy spaces, reaching on and on; or tell you of the nations of birds in the Rock Creek woods, which have made there a supreme haunt for naturalists; of its nations of flowers, which beckon and nod from the Rock Creek and Piney Branch roads; the anemones, the arbutus, the honeysuckle, the laurel, the violets, the innocents, covering wide acres with color and perfume; of the shy Rock Creek parsonage, built of brick brought from England more than a century ago, above whose trees the Capitol gleams, yet within whose porch you seem shut in peace away from this loud world, with the bees droning in the still warm air, and humming-birds drinking from the lilac cups; with the gentle Christian hearts which abide beneath its roof and minister beneath the shadow of its venerable church; if I could paint all these as they are, you would care for my Washington, but as I cannot, I fear that you never will. A Washington May is the June of the north, with a pomp of color, an exuberance of foliage, an allurement of atmosphere which a northern June has not. It is May now. All the ugly outlines and shabby old houses are softened and covered with beneficent foliage. Already the mowers are at work in the Capitol grounds and in the little public parks, and the sweetness of the slain grass pervades the atmosphere. The children are everywhere pretty things. Washington is full of them, tumbling amid the flowers and in the dirt. It is May, yet June, impatient, has reached across her sister, dropping her roses everywhere. Washington is one vast garden of roses. It is the hour of strawberry festivals and of FLOWER GATHERING.