THE WATER OF THE MOORS 179 



crows looks over them for such cripples as may not 

 have been able to remove, and migratory bands of 

 doves take berries there as they roam on towards the 

 sea. Long, widening green seams proclaim the more 

 or less perennial watercourses, for here only trees are 

 equal to the task of growing. These combes are per- 

 fect oases in a sun-scorched desert, and they contain 

 all that roams the moors on cool nights or at damper 

 seasons of the year. Here the blackcock crows his 

 thanks for a green and tranquil life ; the red stag 

 couches out of sight of man and almost out of scent 

 of flies ; the half-wild ponies climb like monkeys down 

 to water that is deep enough to cover their fetlock?, 

 and there stand swishing their tails and waiting for 

 the cool of the evening. 



Out of that brazen sky, that dry air that extracts 

 pounds of moisture from the pores if we only sit and 

 pant in it, there falls at night a copious dew. Long 

 before daylight fades the grass glistens with it, our 

 last perambulation of the tent to see if the ropes are 

 tight is a cold-water paddle, and as we lie in bed, we 

 like to stretch out the arms and feel that the blessed 

 water is really in the air. Now the argosies are 

 thickening in the sky, and the wind that passes 

 through the trees seems to be asking whether they 

 are ready for rain. Their response is a cheering 

 intimation that rain will come. It comes in the 

 middle of the night, pattering on our woven roof with 

 welcome vehemence. The big spots, well driven by 

 a forty-mile wind, send each a tiny spray through that 

 kisses the face like dew. Bell after bell is added to 

 the chime of the brook that before morning speaks 

 with a hundred tongues to the two-noted tingle that 



