PEAT 



N the laps of the great hills, resting on 

 granite, like sponges in a basin, lies the 

 peat of Dartmoor, mile on mile — a haunt 

 of beauty in Summer, and in wintertime 

 the warmth of the homes of the upland men. Seen 

 afar, or examined at hand, these deep bogs brim with 

 interest, for they harbour many good things and are 

 a delight to the eye. They bring ripe colour into 

 the waste, and their lines and clefts break the 

 monotone of the endless desert with contrasts of form 

 and tint. Their dusky walls, cut freshly from the 

 peat -beds, reflect the light on their shining faces, 

 weather to fine tones of yellow and grey, change 

 hourly with the rest of the Moor from dawn until 

 evening. They offer a wondrous medley of all rich 

 hues from agate to ebony ; they burn as though 

 red-hot in the level ray of sunrise ; they reflect 

 blue noontides in their pools ; Winter freezes them ; 

 in Spring they teem again ; and they nourish a 

 world of life through the increased temperature of 

 Summer. In their chocolate hearts and on each 

 shimmering pool, sedgy marsh, and shaking bog, half 

 a hundred different flowers shall be found ; for it is 

 only in the dark hours of Winter that their garlands 



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