98 MY DEVON YEAR 



on the green, and yields her scent only to those who 

 crush her beneath their feet ; between the gorse 

 and heather ridges, dwarfed by western winds, the 

 little pink stars of centauries peep along the downs ; 

 brake-fern shines upon the waste and weathers to 

 russet under the wind; the slender thistle springs from 

 the scorched herbage, carline thistles spread amber 

 rays ; cathartic flax twinkles with the shaking grass ; 

 lady's bedstraw, and other of the galium folk, make 

 light everywhere, and twine their brightness into the 

 texture of the waste ; while the least of them — 

 the tiny squinancy-wort — also dwells here in com- 

 pany of the silky cudweeds, and small trefoils, and 

 pink and white stork's-bills tucked into limestone 

 crannies. Here, too, a choice and exceedingly scarce 

 plant — the honewort — shall be found in June, and 

 presently goldilocks — a treasure rarer than gold — will 

 scatter her wealth hard by, when the empty calyx of 

 the knapweed shines like silver, when the thrift and 

 sea -lavender are dead, and a thousand seed-cases 

 tell of Autumn. 



Around me are the foundations of deserted forts. 

 There is a drone of bees in the thyme, a dance 

 of heat along the way, and a man lifts his eyes from 

 so much of withered green to the blue waters 

 beyond, to the mists and cloud-mazes of the pale 

 horizon, to the ruddy, tanned sails of the fishing 

 fleet, or wind-torn, smoky tangle from a steamer's 

 funnel seen afar off on the edge of the sea. 

 Summer holds the crown of this great cliff, while 



