200 MY DEVON YEAR 



Here the scads will dry, and then be taken and 

 stacked in some lew spot under each farmyard wall. 

 The scent of the familiar blue smoke is very fragrant 

 to nostrils that know it well, and for me, when 

 removed from the presence of this great lonely place, 

 the lump of peat cast on glowing ashes in some winter 

 fire sends forth a sweeter savour than any spice or 

 gum. Because its incense can awaken memory, and 

 its subtle sharp odour, beyond power of description, 

 can conjure up the little cots and sequestered grey 

 homesteads ; the open walls, where the wheat-ear bobs 

 and perks ; the yellow-bird and his melancholy cry ; 

 the white roads that stretch visible for miles ; the 

 shadows of the hills, the shadows of the clouds ; and 

 rivers calling from the rush-beds, and the peat-beds, 

 and the graves of the old stone-men. I see black bogs, 

 and the plover fluttering and mewing among them. 

 Above all is a great sky full of fresh, wet wind from 

 the South-west. The clouds fling forth sudden 

 curtains of grey rain that sweep along in separate 

 storms, and for a space shut out the wild horizon. 

 Then a shaft of pale sunlight breaks the meshes of the 

 clouds, passes over the desert places, touches the hills 

 and valleys, and suddenly illuminates a grey huddle of 

 little cots, where men live beside a lonely farm. 



The red-hot peat still scents my chamber, and over 

 its scarlet core a purple aureola trembles, as though 

 fire had freed some little Dartmoor peri long pent 

 within. 



