156 MY DEVON YEAR 



and the whitewash, thatch, and nestling grey home- 

 steads of Stoke Gabriel make the shore beautiful. 

 Hereby, in great shadows touched with green, a 

 party of snow-white ducks lends light to the heart 

 of a soft gloom cast from overhanging trees ; and 

 charlock flames in a turnip field on the hill — a 

 thing fine to see, but of colour raw, contrasted with 

 the deep, rich glow of ripening wheat in a neigh- 

 bouring croft. The wind is on the water, and sweep- 

 ing the uplands also. Beneath, ripple on ripple of 

 silver and of music waken the river at a sudden 

 bend ; above, the glory is over the corn, sweeping 

 the swaying harvest of grain, streaking each field 

 with waves of pure light, where the shining glumes 

 reflect their share of the sunshine simultaneously in 

 myriads. 



Ahead, on the right bank, lies Dittisham, winding 

 upwards from the shore like a mighty snake whose 

 scales are all blue slates. Quaint cottages cluster 

 along the water here, then ascending, are seen in line 

 through the plum trees that clothe these hills with 

 dark green. On the left bank rise other woods aglow 

 in opposition to the sun, and a cottage lies at the 

 foot of them. Wood-smoke twines upward from its 

 chimney against the sunny forest, and there is music 

 on the water in notes from the ferry bell. 



Then the approaching sea makes itself felt. Dart's 

 banks are draped with amber weed along the tide- 

 way ; limestone crags rise above, and a little sail bobs 

 here and there in the expanse of water. Another 



