i 3 6 MY DEVON YEAR 



fleeces, shine among naked branches, drape the great 

 arms of the dark fir, droop in fair festoons and showers 

 over the decay of the year's foliage. When wet with 

 rain they are grey ; when dry or under sunshine they 

 make a frosted silver robe for the green things below. 

 The pink fruits of the spindle tree have opened, and 

 the brilliant orange seeds are visible. Bryony and 

 woody nightshade hang their berries in the hedges ; 

 thistle and dandelion sow their endless crop upon the 

 wind, but the willow-herb and the valerian have long 

 since parted from their flying seeds. Along the hedges 

 is huddle of damp death, here starred by some belated 

 rosy campion or wild basil, daisy or tardy black- 

 berry spray in flower ; the languid air is laden with 

 sweetness from the orchards ; the starlings fly in 

 flocks ; the small birds twitter and hop in subdued 

 parties about the way ; a thrush sings bravely ; and 

 the robin's sudden song in autumn twilight reminds 

 us of the dark days at the door. Now desiccated 

 lichens again grow humid, and the hooded and cowled 

 people grey and livid, scarlet and purple begin to 

 move and peep from under the dead leaves. 



November further marks the oncoming of Winter. 

 The nights are touched with frost, and at noon, when 

 the sun brings a genial ray to some old stump or 

 mossy stone, ancient bluebottles collect there to warm 

 their failing wings, to lament the green days done, to 

 marvel that their god should thus lose his primal heat, 

 and sink so low into the hedge from his old, high 

 pathway above the tree-tops. So, comparing signs 



