CHAP. vi. JO Y ON THE MOORS. 61 



" And whenever the way seemed long, 



Or his heart began to fail, 

 She would sing a more wonderful song, 

 Or tell a more marvellous tale." 



He was more joyful on the moors than amid the 

 noise of streets. There he was alone with himself. 

 Not a sound was to be heard as he trudged along, save 

 the beating of his own heart not a voice save that of 

 heaven. The clouds threw their purple shadows over 

 the moor. The grouse flew up with a whirr, whirr! 

 The blue mountain hare flew past him, though there 

 was no danger to be apprehended from him. 



The deluge sometimes caught him. One afternoon, in 

 August, he walked thirty-two miles amidst soaking rain. 

 He had gone up to the top of a mountain, and found 

 only a plant of white heather. He walked and ran all 

 the way back, through moors, mosses, and heather, 

 jumping the flagstone fences ; and at last reached home 

 after nine and a half hours' walking and running. Yet 

 he was up next morning at six, and went through his 

 day's work as usual. 



The following is a pleasanter day's adventure. It 

 was written to his sister at the end of August : " Since 

 I wrote you last, I have managed to walk thirty-six 

 miles. Long, long ago, I chanced to find a Fern eighteen 

 miles up the country. It was not new, consequently 

 not a discovery ; but it was as good as such to me. It 

 had never crossed me in all my wanderings, or rather I 

 had never found it until then. No one told me where 

 it grew, for the best of reasons that no one knew, 



