THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 



flower. Old walls, as we saw just now, 

 are not left without a fringe, on the top 

 of the hardest brick wall, on the sapless 

 tiles, on slates, stonecrop takes hold 

 and becomes a cushion of yellow bloom. 

 Nature is a miniature painter and 

 handles a delicate brush, the tip of 

 which touches the tiniest spot and 

 leaves something living. The park has 

 indeed its larger lines, its broad open 

 sweep, and gradual slope, to which the 

 eye, accustomed to small enclosures, 

 requires time to adjust itself. These 

 left to themselves are beautiful ; they are 

 the surface of the earth, which is always 

 true to itself and needs no banks nor 

 artificial hollows. The earth is right 

 and the tree is right; trim either and 

 all is wrong: the deer will not fit to 

 them then.— 'Field and Hedgerow': 

 An English Deer-Park. 



io3 



