The Queen of the Morning, as you already know, or at all events know now, had come with all her court, and troupe of gay courtiers. The Young Hours had unbarred for her the Gates of Day, and she at once sallied forth. Beautiful little pages in the shape of pink clouds, quite like tiny angels with wings, were holding up her train. Some of those fairy cherubs seemed, too, to have censers in their hands, at least if one could judge from the delicate wreaths of mist which rose like incense from them. Others appeared to be discharging tiny golden arrows from silver bows; others to paint, with invisible pencils, in delicate and varying hues of amber and purple, the fringes of clouds; while the Queen herself at times laid her own finger upon the larger of these, and braided them with snow and crimson. And then, how loyal everything seemed to be on the earth beneath! How each flower that had been asleep all night instantly rose on awaking, and, in the most duteous manner uncovering its head, prepared to take its place in the royal procession. The more gorgeous ones of the garden led the way, with their velvet tassels, and silken brocades, and pendants of opal and turquoise; some apparently carrying chalices filled with nectar. Then the fields and hedgerows, in their rough, rustic, plebeian fashion, with their fustian jackets and smock-frocks, said--"We shall not be behind our betters;" so their buttercups and wood-anemones, speedwell and scarlet pimpernel, the meadow violet with its modest blue, the cowslip with its burnished cells, the daisy with its "golden eye and white silver eyelashes," all did fealty to their adored Queen. Some went down on their knees; others doffed their caps; others smiled bewitchingly; others could do nothing but waft sweet perfumes. There were even bands of very varied music and musicians, all assisting with their efforts in swelling the Queen's Anthem. The brook, though it had sung all night, and had need of a little respite, seemed to say--"No, I shall go warbling on; she shall have my very best treble of a ripple." And then there were minor performers in this nature-choir. The Blackbird and Redbreast, Goldfinch and Linnet, and Chaffinch, each took part with striking effect. Even the Swallow in his own quiet way twittered, and the Tomtit chattered, and the Beetle droned, and the Bee hummed, and the big Dragon-fly, in armour of brightest cobalt, whirred; and the Grasshopper, poor fellow! did his very uttermost,--he chirruped, he could do no more. The Butterfly, who could not raise a single note, came out in his best plush court-dress of gold, vermilion, and blue, dainty little silent outrider that he is, waking up any exceptional sleepers. He carried, truth to say, his zeal sometimes too far; as when I saw him unjustly reproaching the Foxglove for having bells and not ringing them, a thing they were never meant to do. Even the Spider hung his silver-tissued web from spray to spray; as if he had weaved a gossamer