40 MY DEVON YEAR 



woods twinkled in a starry constellation on the 

 bank of a stream. Above it ivy tumbled over a 

 shelf of broken earth ; beneath, a brook twined and 

 rippled and babbled of blue forget-me-nots to come. 

 Here dwelt the moschatel, a little flower named 

 adoxa, by reason of her humility and retiring disposi- 

 tion. And looking forward, after I had turned and 

 retraced the way, I saw many another green flower 

 still hid in the bud, or maybe not yet sprung above 

 the earth. Soon ribes, the wild currant, will be 

 shaking out little racemes of shallow bells ; soon 

 wandering madder's small blossoms will appear where 

 the parent climber twines with a thousand fingers 

 through hedge and over waste ; presently the pale- 

 green inflorescence of the maple and spindle trees 

 will adorn their Spring foliage ; sweet daphne will 

 spread fragrance ; the spurges, or little-goods, as 

 generations of impatient farmers have called them, 

 will open fantastic blooms upon the tilled land and 

 by the wayside ; black bryony and white will twist 

 their soft tendrils and bear small, verdant blossoms 

 when the cuckoo sings. Later in the year the 

 traveller's joy must lift pale buds, the box must 

 bloom, and the wormwood deck forgotten corners 

 and dusty patches of waste land. The wild hop, 

 too, with its sterile stars and fertile catkins or 

 cones, will beautify each high summer hour, and 

 many another rare and common blossom — the hare's 

 ear, herb Paris, lady's mantle, wood -sage, nettle, 

 pellitory of the wall, twayblade, and some of the more 



