158 FRESH FIELDS 



dams could hardly be softer to the foot. The last 

 of July the grass was still short and thick, as if it 

 never shot up a stalk and produced seed, but always 

 remained a fine, close mat. Nothing was more 

 unlike what I was used to at home than this uni- 

 versal tendency (the same is true in Scotland and 

 in Wales) to grass, and, on the lower slopes, to 

 bracken, as if these were the only two plants in 

 nature. Many of these eminences in the north of 

 England, too lofty for hills and too smooth for 

 mountains, are called fells. The railway between 

 Carlisle and Preston winds between them, as Hough- 

 ill Fells, Tebay Fells, Shap Fells, etc. They are, 

 even in midsummer, of such a vivid and uniform 

 green that it seems as if they must have been 

 painted. Nothing blurs or mars the hue; no stalk 

 of weed or stem of dry grass. The scene, in single- 

 ness and purity of tint, rivals the blue of the sky. 

 Nature does not seem to ripen and grow sere as 

 autumn approaches, but wears the tints of May in 

 October. 



