84 MY DEVON YEAR 



The daisy, the buttercup, the speedwell, and the 

 budding blossoms of the grasses are rippling to my 

 feet, while where the orchard slopes towards a hazel 

 hedge, great snow-white umbel-bearers rise above 

 lesser things, and the dock and the burdock prosper, 

 and the swords of the yellow iris shine blue -green 

 above running water. The nettles, in vigorous 

 communities, look grey amid so much young verdure, 

 and the last of the bluebells hang their heads where 

 the ferns uncurl beside them. Huge, cool shadows, 

 almost purple, fall upon this carpet, and growing 

 deeper with distance, they make a sort of soft gloom 

 through the regiments of the tree - stems. The 

 trunks spring upwards at all angles, of all shapes, 

 inscribed with every fantastic lichen-word that the 

 Mother writes on ancient barks. In tones of ripe, 

 mossy green, of silver-brown, and of silver-grey, the 

 apple trees stand ; with wild, perfect confusion they 

 thrust forth their boughs. The branches strike out 

 abruptly ; they start oblique ; they spring aloft, then 

 droop ; they droop, then rise ; they turn upon them- 

 selves and twist lovingly back to the parent stem ; 

 they trace a maze against the grey of winter skies ; 

 and now they furnish meet frameworks for the 

 glory of foliage and of bloom. Their forms are 

 partly hidden at this hour, and the wonderful 

 harmonies of line and reticulation of boughs are 

 almost draped in leafy garments, almost wreathed 

 with flowers. 



I think lichens love the rose-folk, for here, as on 



