THE MAY FIELDS , 29 



it all is wonderful. And it is this, with its 

 beneficent power, that wc waste. 



If spring is reckoned pure below, among " the 

 foul miasmas that cling to the lowest bottoms of 

 reeking valleys," how much purer must it not be 

 reckoned under Alpine skies ! The amelioration 

 is already marked after we have risen a few 

 hundred feet from the plains. Our minds climb 

 with our bodies, both attuning themselves to the 

 increasing purity of our surroundings, until at some 

 5,000 feet we feel, to use a homely expres- 

 sion, as different as chalk from cheese. And 

 nothing aids more potently in this attunement 

 than do the fields of springtime blossoms. 



" Why bloom 'st thou so ? " asks the poet of these 

 flowers — 



" Why blooni'st thou so 

 In solitary loveliness, more fair 

 In this thy artless beauty, than the rare 

 And costliest garden-plant P " 



The question has been answered, or, at any rate, 

 answered in important part, and far more truth- 

 fully than by any blind, patronising remark about 

 "wasted beauty.' Wasted! It is an accusation 

 which the flowers should hurl at us ! Wasted ? 

 Yes ; wasted, in so far as we do not yet take 



