204 MY DEVON YEAR 



fallen fruit together. She gazed upwards sometimes, 

 and once touched a bending bough of massy fruit as 

 though she would willingly ease the pain of such 

 ofenerous bearing". 



Presently I looked into an ancient face, whereon 

 years had written more stories than one. The woman 

 was very brown, her eyes grey as the autumn mist ; 

 a dignity of demeanour marked her actions ; her old 

 voice was sweet ; and the vernacular chimed upon 

 her tongue. 



"Sure," thought I, "here is our Lady of the 

 Apples — Pomorum Patrona herself! Here, musing 

 alone at sunset time and, goddess -like, forgetting 

 not the least of her altars, she wanders in this seques- 

 tered nook. Here she walks amid her scented garners, 

 and she knows that the magnificence of one happy 

 tree — his payment for full share of sunshine and 

 rain — is the magnificence of them all ; and each to 

 her is all, and all are no more than her united care 

 and joy." 



I gave the grey-eyed woman greeting, and fell to 

 talk of harvest and the bountiful splendour of the 

 year. Her eyes were lifted, and a smile made her 

 beautiful. She picked red fruit and gave it to me. 



" 'Tis sweet apples this tree do bear. Ess — you'm 

 right — a braave crop, an' gude cider come presently. 

 Theer's boughs clean brawk I could show 'e. Do 

 sadden me to think of. 'Tis like a mother that dies 

 in childbirth. But I seem you'm wanting apples. 

 Us have a gert store as be prime for household 



