1 88 MY DEVON YEAR 



river winds away amid fertile newtakes southward. 

 Enthroned here, the old wood abides within the hand 

 of time ; and to me, as I dream at the heart of it, the 

 dominant idea begotten is not of mystery nor yet of 

 awe, but a reflection won from the carmine colour- 

 gleam of second Spring. That these most vener- 

 able and mossy boughs can so win the earth-message 

 and the sun-message, can renew their sap through the 

 centuries and break at autumn time into these flush- 

 ing coronets of new-born leaves, is wonderful to me. 

 While their trunks waste to shell and skeleton, 

 while death batters the gnarled dwarfs in shape of 

 tempest and time, they answer still the seasons' 

 call ; century after century they stud their crooked 

 branches with buds, and burst into leaf and flower 

 at the touch of a returning sun. Here is English 

 oak, and its roots are twining in granite, its branches 

 are flourishing with rude vigour a thousand feet above 

 the sea. A great song might be sung from this second 

 Spring of oaks that are centuries old. 



Sunshine passes ; the light creeps upward before 

 onset of shadows cast by the western hills ; and 

 so Wistman's Wood is buried in shade again, to 

 sleep through another night, to await another dawn. 

 The forest has witnessed half a million sunrises ; and 

 it may see as many again, or endure as long as the 

 granite hills that circle it and the round earth where- 

 on it spins. Such concourse of venerable life has a 

 moral value in some sort and may serve to fortify 

 man's heart. Wistman's Wood also is part of the 



