f everlasting green roll
silently into their long inlets among the shadows of the pines; and we
may, perhaps, at last know the meaning of those quiet words of the 147th
Psalm, 'He maketh the grass to grow upon the mountains.'"

"On fine days," he tells us again in his _Autobiography_, "when the
grass was dry, I used to lie down on it, and draw the blades as they
grew, with the ground herbage of buttercup or hawkweed mixed among them,
until every square foot of meadow, or mossy bank, became an infinite
picture and possession to me, and the grace and adjustment to each other
of growing leaves, a subject of more curious interest to me than the
composition of any painter's masterpieces."

In the passage above quoted, Ruskin alludes especially to Swiss meadows.
They are especially remarkable in the beauty and variety of flowers. In
our fields the herbage is mainly grass, and if it often happens that
they glow with Buttercups or are white with Ox-eye-daisies, these are
but unwelcome intruders and add nothing to the value of the hay. Swiss
meadows, on the contrary, are sweet and lovely with wild Geraniums,
Harebells, Bluebells, Pink Restharrow, Yellow Lady's Bedstraw, Chervil,
Eyebright, Red and White Silenes, Geraniums, Gentians, and many other
flowers which have no familiar English names; all adding not only to the
beauty and sweetness of the meadows, but forming a valuable part of the
crop itself.[35] On the other hand "turf" is peculiarly English, and no
turf is more delightful than that of our Downs--delightful to ride on,
to sit on, or to walk on. The turf indeed feels so springy under our
feet that walking on it seems scarcely an exertion: one could almost
fancy that the Downs themselves were still rising, even higher, into the
air.

The herbage of the Downs is close rather than short, hillocks of sweet
thyme, tufts of golden Potentilla, of Milkwort--blue, pink, and
white--of sweet grass and Harebells: here and there pink with Heather,
or golden with Furze or Broom, while over all are the fresh air and
sunshine, sweet scents, and the hum of bees. And if the Downs seem full
of life and sunshine, their broad shoulders are types of kindly
strength, they give also an impression of power and antiquity, while
every now and then we come across a tumulus, or a group of great grey
stones, the burial place of some ancient hero, or a sacred temple of our
pagan forefathers.

On the Downs indeed things change slowly, and in part