96 MY DEVON YEAR 



and flutter of black and white plumage, made laboured 

 flight among the tree-tops. 



It is afterwards that such spectacles as the old 

 canal repay a man for whole-hearted worship before 

 them long afterwards, through the watches of sleep- 

 less nights, under darkness, or in the dreary avenues 

 of pain. Then they return, these pictures, if we have 

 seen them true; they return with their light and music 

 and old glory as it was on a bygone day. No more 

 we hear the rustle of the fire, nor the cry of the 

 morning wind on the pane ; no more we feel the evil 

 gnawing in the clay of us ; for a little while we can 

 call back yesterday ; for a moment we stand on the 

 threshold of a summer-time long dead ; and as the 

 good images waken, memory brings a little peace. 



