120 MY DEVON YEAR 



beauty where the splendour of the mosses is slowly 

 departing. The spindle tree buds, and from the elm 

 now falls a rain of flower-petals infinitely small. 

 They strew the way beneath, even as presently the 

 leaf-sheaths of the beech will scatter a silver-toned 

 mantle under the woods and on to the wind-flowers. 

 Now the red ploughed lands grow paler at the 

 kiss of the wind. Each day the moisture in them 

 lessens, and they diminish from the deep Devon 

 hue to a delicate pink against the sky-line. But 

 where the harrows scratch their faces the riper colour 

 gleams ag^ain. 



I see now that the black bryonies best start 

 their life's brief journey in companionship, and so, 

 cuddling round and round each other like a living 

 rope, mutually support their twin strands. With 

 doubled strength they play their part in the common- 

 wealth, climb aloft among honeysuckles and clematis, 

 now adorn the way with tiny inflorescence like sprays 

 of green dew, and presently fruit in scarlet clusters 

 that are amongst the last fine things to perish in 

 December. But the common bryony is absent from 

 Devon — a circumstance to note, for few are the wild 

 flowers that find this county inhospitable ; and many 

 of the hardy northern folk would abide on Dart- 

 moor's heart if they might but wander South to 

 her. It may be noted for such as love figures and 

 flowers that but a trifling bouquet from the wealth of 

 Devonshire lanes can be culled in this paper. I think 

 not above three hundred plants are mentioned, yet 



