A River Path. 29 



From the steep slopes of the ravine comes the faint 

 roar of frequent waterfalls, rushing down unseen 

 through the still leafless wilderness of ash and oak 

 trees relieved here and there by the bright green of 

 feathery larches, or a group of sombre firs, harbour for 

 crow and kestrel. 



In the summer-time, these headlong streams will be 

 breast high with noble royal ferns, lighted here and 

 there with the red torch of the foxglove, and, like all 

 the river-side, set thick with yellow broom. 



The sides of the valley grow steeper yet and higher. 

 It must be full five hundred feet from the gray tor up 

 yonder to the broken glimmer of silver that roars 

 along at its feet. 



High overhead a buzzard sails in wide circles. 

 Now, on his mighty wings, the noble bird drifts 

 leisurely up to the broad ledge where, safe beyond the 

 reach of all but the most daring of climbers, his eager 

 nestlings wait for his return. 



Over the rocks about the nest are strewn the spoils 

 of the chase a ringdove or two, a hare, the remains 

 of half a dozen rabbits, perhaps even a blackcock. 

 For a buzzard that has young to provide for makes sad 

 havoc in his forays, though comparatively harmless at 

 other times, and contenting himself for the most 

 part with humbler quarry, after the manner of the 

 kestrel. 



About the windy ramparts of this robber stronghold 

 stretch away the breezy uplands of the moor. Here 



