AR-E-K COCK! I don't know when I first heard 

 that cry, for I shot many a cock before ever I 

 did hear it down in dear- old Cornwall. Barren 

 and brown thy moors, dotted with grey moorstone 

 boulders which saw the Deluge if there ever was a 

 Deluge in this country — about which I have my 

 doubts — which look as if Titans had been playing at 

 marbles, and had to leave their game in a hurry ; with 

 here and there vast' heaps of dirt as big as the Pyramids, and the huge 

 arm of an ugly pumping engine working up and down with dreary 

 monotony. Still, old friend, thou hast valleys and corners and crannies 

 of unexampled beauty, with crystal streams (that is where the mines and 

 the china clay don't get at them) tumbling from rock to rock in pretty 

 pools amid feathery, heathery, ferny foliage — (delicious alliteration) — not 

 to be beaten in Britain. When the mines or the china clay do 

 contaminate them, however, notliing so weird and liideous is to be seen in 

 nature. 



I never shall forget the first time I saw a Cornish ravine with g, stream 



