156 FRESH FIELDS 



smooth and full are they with thick turf. At other 

 points the rock has fretted through the verdant 

 carpet. St. Sunday's Crag to the west, across 

 Grisedale, is a steep acclivity covered with small, 

 loose stones, as if they had been dumped over the 

 top, and were slowly sliding down; but nowhere 

 do I see great bowlders strewn about. Patches of 

 black peat are here and there. The little rills, near 

 and far, are white as milk, so swiftly do they run. 

 On the more precipitous sides the grass and moss 

 are lodged, and hold like snow, and are as tender 

 in hue as the first April blades. A multitude of 

 lakes are in view, and Morecambe Bay to the south. 

 There are sheep everywhere, loosely scattered, with 

 their lambs; occasionally I hear them bleat. No 

 other sound is heard but the chirp of the mountain 

 pipit. I see the wheat-ear flitting here and there. 

 One- mountain now lies in full sunshine, as fat as 

 a seal, wrinkled and dimpled where it turns to 

 the west, like a fat animal when it bends to lick 

 itself. What a spectacle is now before me! — all 

 the near mountains in shadow, and the distant in 

 strong sunlight; I shall not see the like of that 

 again. On some of the mountains the green vest- 

 ments are in tatters and rags, so to speak, and 

 barely cling to them. No heather in view. To- 

 ward Windermere the high peaks and crests are much 

 more jagged and rocky. The air is filled with the 

 same white, motionless vapor as in Scotland. When 

 the sun breaks through, — 



