So that thou dost bring us in
A sort of May-time masculine.”
But this is only in small part true of these Alpine fields. There is, to be sure, something of the May fields in the June fields, but all of May’s best is certainly not shared by June—not, that is to say, unless we climb up higher than we intend to do. The Crocus and Soldanella have gone; they came “to show the paths that June must tread,” not to tread those paths with the Orchid and the Lily. Gone, also, is the pure yellow-petalled Mountain Geum. The Marsh Marigold, too, is no longer with us in rich, golden crowds; nor does the Mealy Primula spread its rosy carpet over acre upon acre. One misses, also, the bright white presence of Micheli’s Daisy; and the Vernal Gentian, “blue with the beauty of windless skies,” though still lingering here and there, is, for the most part, hidden by the Grasses and the Clovers.
Ah! yes, the Clovers—pink, rose-red, crimson, cream, white, yellow: we must not forget these! Of goodly and varied company, they are such important units in the rich composition of most Alpine meadows, and, where they grow, they form so compact a groundwork of colouring and so admirable a setting for many of the taller flowers, that it were, indeed, a dereliction of memory to overlook them! What could be lovelier than a wide area of these Clovers in June sown with lilac, rose-tinted, and white Orchids, deep, lustrous-blue Phyteumas, paper-white Paradise Lilies, and infinite hosts of the bright and fascinating little Euphrasia? Or in July, when the orange Arnica, the porcelain-blue Campanula barbata, and the graceful, distinguished-looking little Thesium alpinum make their ever-welcome appearance in the fields? Of course, there are degrees even in natural felicity, and the Orchids—with the exception of the creamy-white Butterfly Orchis—are not at their best if the predominant Clover be red. But, speaking generally, the groundwork of Clovers is a most valuable element in the colouring of these pastures. Were this groundwork removed we should wonder why the fields and slopes looked so meagre and thin. And this is also true of Euphrasia officinalis, the Eyebright, a very precious, though humble denizen of the fields in July. This plant, by the way, owes its English name, not to its flower (as in the case of the little bright-blue Speedwell, Veronica Chamædrys, often erroneously called Eyebright), but to an infusion of the plant which long ago was supposed to cure defective vision. Milton, indeed, causes the Archangel Michael to use it upon Adam:
“... then purged with Euphrasy and Rue
The visual nerve, for he had much to see.”
EVENING among the fields of pink Bistort at Lac Champex; sunset-glow on the Grand Combin, July.
Like the Clovers, the Eyebright should certainly not be ignored, though it is easy to do so. It may be numbered amongst those things we should miss without being able to say what we do miss—those things of a high and unobtrusive value, partly composed of half the worth of things in greater evidence. In other words, it is amongst those things which, in a quiet, self-effacing way, enhance their surroundings.