NOTES ON LANDSCAPE PAINTING. 139 



The petal of the buttercup has an enamel of gold; 

 with the nail you may scrape it off, leaving still a 

 yellow ground, but not reflecting the sunlight like the 

 outer layer. From the centre the golden pollen covers 

 the fingers with dust like that from the wing of a 

 butterfly. In the bunches of grass and by the gate- 

 ways the germander speedwell looks like tiny specks 

 of blue stolen, like Prometheus' fire, from the summer 

 sky. When the mowing-grass is ripe the heads of 

 sorrel are so thick and close that ata little distance the 

 surface seems as if sunset were always shining red 

 upon it. From the spotted orchis leaves in April to 

 the honeysuckle-clover in June, and the rose and the 

 honeysuckle itself, the meadow has changed in nothing 

 that delights the eye. The draining, indeed, has made 

 it more comfortable to walk about on, and some of the 

 rougher grasses have gone from the furrows, diminish- 

 ing at the same time the number of cardamine flowers ; 

 but of these there are hundreds by the side of every 

 tiny rivulet of water, and the aquatic grasses flourish 

 in every ditch. The meadow-farmers, dairymen, have 

 not grubbed many hedges — only a few, to enlarge the 

 fields, too small before, by throwing two into one. So 

 that hawthorn and blackthorn, ash. and willow, with 

 their varied hues of green in spring, briar and bramble, 

 with blackberries and hips later on, are still there as 

 in the old, old time. Bluebells, violets, cowslips — the 

 same old favourite flowers — may be found on the 

 mounds or sheltered near by. The meadow-farmers 

 have dealt mercifully with the hedges, because they 

 know that for shade in heat and shelter in storm the 

 cattle resort to them. The hedges — yes, the hedges, 



