Cheddar Cliffs. 127 



Round the grey pinnacles float the silent, ghost-like 

 figures of the daws. Far above them soaring swifts 

 have still the gleam of daylight on their wings. 



Every leaf is still. There is no sound but now 

 and then the clamour of some home-returning troop of 

 birds, or the rustling of a rock-dove's wings as she 

 flutters home to roost. 



The weathered faces of rock are in many places too 

 steep and smooth for any but the smallest plants to 

 find a footing ; but in the crevices, and especially in 

 the recesses high up among the cliffs, there flourishes 

 a luxuriant growth. 



The dark foliage of the yew, the silvery leaves of the 

 white beam, and the varied tints of half a score of 

 other hardy shrubs which, blended in picturesque 

 confusion, have anchored themselves in the shattered 

 buttresses, form, with the cool green of the ivy that 

 clings everywhere in graceful draperies, an exquisite 

 relief among the delicate grey of the time-worn lime- 

 stone. 



Not a few flowers, too, find a home upon the rocks. 

 In the summer the frail yellow poppy clings about 

 their feet ; abundant wall-flowers scent the air ; soft 

 blue harebells nestle in the grass. Sober wood-sage 

 and bright stone-crops wander among the shattered 

 fragments ; while on all the ledges and in every 

 crevice the delicate little Cheddar pink, pride at once 

 of the cliffs and the country, shows its tender flush of 

 rose on every buttress of the mighty wall. There is 



