DEVON LANES AND THEIR ASSOCIATIONS. 1 



one would care to walk lightly shod in winter through the Devon 

 lanes. The road which, in more civilized counties, November 

 converts into u feather-bed lane," becomes here, in the native 

 term, "mucksy lane." You long, as you flounder in the mire, 

 for the ten-foot stride of the giant Ordulph, who lies buried at 

 Tavistock. As the hedges lose their bravery, the red sandstone 

 stares in all its nakedness from the banks. No storm or wet 

 daunts the pretty blue periwinkle from flowering here during 

 the winter months, and there is sure to be a plentiful supply of 

 wormwood at every corner, "good to prevent weariness in 

 travellers," according to Pliny's old-world wisdom. As the 

 long evenings close in, you may hear " eldritch skirls " in the 

 coppices around. That silent spectre passing overhead so 

 silently as hardly to disturb the streams of moonlight is only 

 the owl on his way, as in Shakespeare's days, " to woo the baker's 

 daughter." You need not mistake it for something uncanny. 

 The last of the Devonshire witches Temperance Lloyd, 

 Mary Trembles, and Susannah Edwards were executed at 

 Exeter Castle in 1682, though many a poor old woman in 

 out-of-the-way districts is still suspected of being " a white 

 witch." 



It is still thought dangerous, though, to disturb " the little 

 people" at their revels on the sward by the lane-side which 

 falls back to the oak wood. You will do this if you whistle as 

 you pass by. Let them be in peace, unless you wish to be 

 " pixey-led," and left " stogged " in a deep swamp. It is ticklish 

 work meddling with Elbricht and his fairy folk. Be forbearing, 

 even you, my irate British farmer, if they will gallop your 

 horses over the moor at night, and Dobbin, your faithful 

 market steed, be discovered all over foam in his stall on two or 

 three mornings during winter. Why should the pixies be 

 debarred from a night with " the wish hounds " occasionally ? 

 Open your window the next frosty midnight, and you will hear 

 the rout sweeping merrily away towards Dartmoor. Do not 



