WILD FLOWERS 273 



WILD FLOWERS 



BY RICHARD JEFFERIES 



From The Open Air 



A FIR tree is not a flower, and yet it is associated in 

 my mind with primroses. There was a narrow lane 

 leading into a wood, where I used to go almost every 

 day in the early months of the year, and at one 

 corner it was overlooked by three spruce firs. The 

 rugged lane there began to ascend the hill, and I 

 paused a moment to look back. Immediately the 

 high fir trees guided the eye upwards, and from their 

 tops to the deep azure of the March sky over, but a 

 step from the tree to the heavens. So it has ever 

 been to me, by day or by night, summer or winter; 

 beneath trees the heart feels nearer to that depth of 

 life the far sky means. The rest of spirit found only 

 in beauty, ideal and pure, comes there because the 

 distance seems within touch of thought. To the 

 heaven thought can reach lifted by the strong arms 

 of the oak, carried up by the ascent of the flame- 

 shaped fir. Round the spruce top the blue was 

 deepened, concentrated by the fixed point, the mem- 

 ory of that spot, as it were, of the sky is still fresh 

 I can see it distinctly still beautiful and full of 

 meaning. It is painted in bright color in my mind, 

 color thrice laid, and indelible; as one passes a 

 shrine and bows the head to the Madonna, so I 



