132 1(A{MBLES OF A DOfMINIB 



on the hill-side the dark clusters of that small campanula 

 that, as the legend tells, blooms only where the blood 

 of Danes was spilt. We are on the threshold of the 

 autumn, when the sweet lady's tresses lifts its pale spike 

 of delicate green among the grass of upland pastures. 

 And although upon the trees the touch of autumn is yet 

 but faltering and uncertain, though flowers die slowly 

 in the sharpening air, there is no lack of colour, at least 

 along the hedge-row. 



Perhaps there is nothing more characteristic of a 

 Somersetshire village unless it be the square grey tower 

 of its ancient church than its setting of green orchard- 

 lands and the groups of apple-trees mingling with its 

 white farms and homesteads. And now that harvesting 

 is over, and the apple-crop is being gathered in, heaps of 

 russet and red and gold are growing mellow in the warm 

 October air. It is, often, but a scanty gathering. In 

 many a west country orchard there is never more than 

 a mere sprinkling of fruit, 



'* Like the prophet's ' two or three berries 

 In the top of the uppermost bough.' " 



In the hands of the average farmer the apple yields but 

 a precarious crop. Indeed, the promise of the autumn 

 depends almost entirely on the temper of the spring. 

 No blossom, not even of the peach or apricot, feels more 

 keenly the least touch of frost ; and the winds that in 

 the spring-time shake so roughly the unsheltered bran- 

 ches are apt to be hardly less fatal to the grower's hopes. 



The apple is with us an original inhabitant. The 



