186 FLOWE|l-FIELDS OF ALPINE SWITZERLAND 



more than a superficial tickling of the senses. 

 It entails a mint of meaning for the soul. Yes, 

 the soul. No gardener, no Nature-lover, need 

 be shy of admitting he has a soul ; for it is 

 precisely this which makes Nature-lovers of us 

 all, precisely this which plays so big a part 

 in our admiration of the fields. " Breathes there 

 a man with soul so dead " who will not linger 

 lovingly over mountain meadows tossed or rolling 

 like a multi-coloured sea, with sunlight playing 

 amid the blues, mauves, reds, and yellows, breaking 

 these into endless intermediary tints ; and with 

 butterflies seemingly in such light-hearted flight, 

 skipping and flitting blithely, airily, for all the 

 world like flowers come suddenly to sentient 

 life ? Breathes there a man who will not find in 

 these meadows and their teeming gaiety " a vital- 

 ising passion, calling to life the shrouded thoughts 

 and unsuspected forces of the heart " ? 



From Crocus to " Crocus " ; from the first pale, 

 dainty flush of spring to the last full flush of 

 autumn ; from the shy and hesitating youth of the 

 year to the time when all at length " is rounded 

 with a sleep," these meadows are an intimate joy 

 and refreshment. Nature herself sets so much 

 store by them that when they become, as they 



