It is spring, and time to air out the house. Closets and cupboards are emptied as linens and blankets are carted out to the line.  A stack of quilts, warm and cozy, sit in a wicker basket. Blocks of fabric, organized into complicated patterns, come to life as works of art. Their colors are vibrant, each piece a story.  For many a winter night, they've kept the inhabitants of this country cottage warm, curled up in beds to rest or in chairs beside the fire, reading and sipping tea.  Now the sun has chased away the snow and ice. Warmth has returned to the world. The quilts take it all in, absorbing it to save for when the winter comes again.

The garden gate swings open, revealing a stone path that winds its way through flower beds bursting with riotous color and fragrance. Bees and butterflies flit from blossom to blossom, taking in the bounty of the spring.  At the end of the path, a bed of dark earth, freshly churned, awaits new seedlings while a patch of herbs grows towards the sun. A basket sits beside this, half filled with cuttings, a pair of gardening shears and gloves nearby. Their owner has paused to sit upon a bench, resting from her work, instead taking in the fruits of her labor.  Everything is carefully tended, overgrown but somehow still orderly, full of life and promise.

At the edge of the garden, domed baskets sit upon a shelf indented in the stone wall. A gentle, steady hum rises from these. Inside combs of wax drip with honey as worker bees scurry about, filling the hexagonal sections of the combs, sealing them with wax, and flying in and out, seeking more nectar to feed their young.  The flowers of the garden await their visits, their bright blossoms turned upwards. A fat honeybee lands upon the petals, resting for a moment. Its fine coat of yellow and black stripes stands out against the pink flower.  Across the garden, a table sits. Upon it rests a jar of golden honey, harvested earlier and now ready to be drizzled onto buttered bread.

It's time for tea.

A woman in a pale green pinafore walks down the country road, a basket in her hand. Above her, white clouds float across a pristine blue sky, drifting like sheep grazing in a pasture. She hums as she strolls, in no particular hurry.  A gust of wind tries to separate her from her sunhat, but she holds it in place. On the breeze, she detects a hint of her destination, the fragrance of growing herbs and flowers.  She crests the hill, and a field of purple flowers, planted in neat rows, stretches before her. The wind caresses the plants, rippling over them like waves of a peaceful lake. White-winged butterflies hover over the expanse, gathering nectar and spreading pollen from plant to plant.  The woman enters the field, ready to fill her basket and bring the glory of the field into her home.

Deep within the bramble patch, a mother bird fusses over her chicks. They open their mouths, crying out for food. She feeds them from the riches around her, insects that hide within the leaves and thorns, berries ripened by the sun. The brambles that conceal and protect her brood provide all they need.  Merry voices interrupt her work. She wings above the bushes to see what is a foot.  A pack of happy children, baskets in hand, approach the berry bramble, seeking its fruits.  Soon their fingers and lips will be purple with sweet juices, their baskets full, ready to haul back to their home for baking and feasting.  The bird settles over her now resting young, content in her home, unworried by the children. The bramble's berries are there for all.