Sa THE OPEN AIR. 



the Wright's shop, stand out as if wet with colour and 

 delicately pencilled at the edges. It must be out of 

 doors ; nothing indoors looks like this. 



Pictures are very dull and gloomy to it, and very 

 contrasted colours like those the French use are neces- 

 sary to fix the attention. Their dashes of pink and 

 scarlet bring the faint shadow of the sun into the rpom. 

 As for our painters, their works are hung behind a 

 curtain, and we have to peer patiently through the 

 dusk of evening to see what they mean. Out-of-door 

 colours do not need to be gaudy — a mere dull stake 

 of wood thrust in the ground often stands out sharper 

 than the pink flashes of the French studio ; a faggot ; 

 the outline of a leaf; low tints without reflecting 

 power strike the eye as a bell the ear. To me they 

 are intensely clear, and the clearer the greater the 

 pleasure. It is often too great, for it takes me away 

 from solid pursuits merely to receive the impression, 

 as water is still to reflect the trees. To me it is very 

 painful when illness blots the definition of outdoor 

 things, so wearisome not to see them rightly, and 

 more oppressive than actual pain. I feel as if I was 

 struggling to wake up with dim, half-opened lids and 

 heavy mind. This one yellowhammer still sits on 

 the ash branch in Stewart's Mash over the sward, 

 singing in the sun, his feathers freshly wet with 

 colour, the same sun-song, and will sing to me so 

 long as the heart shaU beat. 



The first conscious thought about wild flowers was 

 to find out their names — the first conscious pleasure, 

 — and then I began to see so many that I had not 

 previously noticed. Once you wish to identify them 



