From Ploughshare to Pulpit by Gordon Stables

The close of the session had come. Soon the streets, that had all winter long been rendered so gay and cheerful by the flash of the scarlet togas and the merry laugh of the wearers, would know neither toga nor wearer any more for six long months.

The session had ended, and spring had come. There was balm in the breath of the breeze that now blew over the Broad Hill and swept along the wide golf links. The breakers thundered less often in fury upon the yellow sand. They preferred now to roll in more slowly, and to lisp and to sing as they curled in long lines of foam upon the beach. Trees were all in bud, birds were in fullest song, people were busy in their gardens, where tulips, hyacinths, polyanthuses, and the sweet-faced primroses were already blooming side by side with the blue-eyed, gentle myosotis or forget-me-not.