1 30 MY DEVON YEAR 



bosom of earth. The grasses have shed their seeds, 

 and their flower-stems are dying and imparting a sere 

 shade of grey and ochre to the hedges. From the 

 point downwards the leaves perish ; and beside them 

 the docks are wasting, and the foliage of many humble 

 things that pass away without splendour is sinking 

 obscurely. But from the fading greens spring up not 

 a few handsome fruits. The shining triple cases of 

 ramsons, bluebells, and violets are open, and they 

 part with their harvest freely ; the tiny grain of the 

 foxglove is ripe in the seed-cone ; and so are the 

 shining black seed-clusters of alexanders. The wood- 

 sorrel and cardamine have springs and shoot their 

 treasures far and wide. The campions' chalice brims 

 with black seed, and the pea folk hang covered with 

 pods, black and brown, the earliest already splitting, 

 the latest scarce out of their swaddling clothes. The 

 daggers of the geranium are open also, and the shining 

 orbs of the stitchwort have burst and vanished like 

 bubbles. 



The full pomp of the greater harvest is not yet, 

 but the hazel-nuts and blackberries are ripe, and 

 broken hedges tell that the boys know it. The arum's 

 scarlet corals stud each fading bank or nook, and of a 

 paler scarlet are the splendid seed-clusters of the fetid 

 iris, that burst out where their heavy green cases break 

 the stems and grow yellow and gape open. Now the 

 morning air is touched with coolness, and downy seeds 

 are flying, and gossamers glinting everywhere. 



Lanes vary much in their character, and, among 



