114 MY DEVON YEAR 



the crown of the hedge-banks, amid silver hazel- 

 stems, the adult ferns luxuriated and shone, with 

 glossy green ribbons, crinkled and puckered and 

 touched with light of the low sun. Young galiums 

 sprouted briskly, sending up their seed-leaves from 

 the naked earth ; tiny rosettes of the little hairy 

 cardamine were also prospering, while the inner 

 vesture of my lane at this season might well be noted, 

 for this was the hour of the lichens in pale tones of 

 grey and silver and tender brown ; of the mosses 

 with their misty traceries and filigrees ; of the liver- 

 worts, clineinor to earth and stone with flat oreen 

 fingers ; and of fungi not a few. Notably like a 

 scarlet gem, the fairy cups of the peziza twinkled 

 here and there, set off by rich background of dead 

 leaf and twig and russet mould ; while nearest of 

 all to the earth's own bosom, veiling it like a silken 

 garment, dwelt dim growths, no thicker than a wash 

 of colour — films of grey-green and pearly grey— a 

 living texture pressed tight against the heart of the 

 Mother. 



Many leaves of the past year still nourished their 

 roots, and the wood-avens, the primrose, the violet, 

 their foliage grown enormous, slowly sank to the sere, 

 and awaited one pinch of frost to end them. Else- 

 where life had begun anew ; the wild arum's leaf-spike 

 was breaking through the earth ; and the leaves of 

 the lesser celandine were spreading to the sun with 

 bold designs in black and white upon their shining 

 green. Late in the month there came a silver dawn 



