204 MY DEVON YEAR 



fallen fruit together. She gazed upwards sometimes, 

 and once touched a bending bough of massy fruit as 

 though she would willingly ease the pain of such 

 generous bearing. 



Presently I looked into an ancient face, whereon 

 years had written more stories than one. The woman 

 was very brown, her eyes grey as the autumn mist ; 

 a dignity of demeanour marked her actions ; her old 

 voice was sweet ; and the vernacular chimed upon 

 her tongue. 



"Sure," thought I, "here is our Lady of the 

 Apples Pomorum Patrona herself! Here, musing 

 alone at sunset time and, goddess -like, forgetting 

 not the least of her altars, she wanders in this seques- 

 tered nook. Here she walks amid her scented garners, 

 and she knows that the magnificence of one happy 

 tree his payment for full share of sunshine and 

 rain is the magnificence of them all ; and each to 

 her is all, and all are no more than her united care 

 and joy." 



I gave the grey-eyed woman greeting, and fell to 

 talk of harvest and the bountiful splendour of the 

 year. Her eyes were lifted, and a smile made her 

 beautiful. She picked red fruit and gave it to me. 



"'Tis sweet apples this tree do bear. Ess you'm 

 right a braave crop, an' gude cider come presently. 

 Theer's boughs clean brawk I could show 'e. Do 

 sadden me to think of. 'Tis like a mother that dies 

 in childbirth. But I seem you'm wanting apples. 

 Us have a gert store as be prime for household 



