92 By Leafy Ways. 



districts. No clank of machinery breaks the stillness 

 of these solitudes ; no sounds of labour startle the 

 timid children of the heath. 



On the high ground to the eastward stand the 

 tall chimney and grey walls of a modern engine- 

 house. But the dismantled buildings are empty and 

 deserted. The crumbling walls know no tenant but 

 the merlin, see no visitor but the rabbits of the 

 warren. 



There are few paths across the waste. The rough 

 track to the mine is almost the only one an ordinary 

 eye would discover. 



An ancient way over the moor marked by tall 

 granite crosses has been long disused. The crosses 

 remain ; the road itself is forgotten. 



No man knows the district if he cannot find his way 

 without map or' compass. But in a Dartmoor mist 

 the oldest hand is helpless. With brief warning, close 

 and thick the grey veil comes down. Every landmark 

 is blotted out ; nothing is visible but a few yards of 

 ground. There is nothing for it but to sit down and 

 wait ; you cannot cross the Fox Tor Mire in mist. 

 The path is hard enough to follow in full daylight ; 

 now, a false step might mean destruction. Tradition 

 says that many a hapless wayfarer has perished in 

 that dismal hollow. 



It is better now the mist is changing into rain. 

 The light grows clearer. From the shelter of that 

 great boulder you can watch the storm driving across 



