140 MY DEVON YEAR 



conjure the grand fancies even now, and feel kindly 

 to them. For what a dainty piece of work is a 

 child's mind ! What a sea of fairy colours it swims 

 in! How unconsciously it gathers and garners 

 and weaves from little experiences, little know- 

 ledge, and little joys, the fabric of its dreams, hopes, 

 and sudden ambitions. Floating in an opal shell 

 on a glorious sea of golden to-morrows, the child 

 stretches out small hands to the future ; as the child- 

 man does afterwards from his mud-barge on the grey 

 canal of life. 



I remember lying here where the dunes are brushed 

 with a sort of purple, paler than palest flowers, where 

 each pit and dimple has its own delicate note of colour, 

 where in this sand-setting, each scrap of flint or slate, 

 or marble shines out like a jewel. Here my mind 

 dwelt upon the ships that stole along over the sea, 

 where it shone above the sand-hills ; and because the 

 grass could hide those great ships, even as a fly on 

 the window can hide the evening star, I said that 

 my toy boat was as good as they ; and sticking it in 

 the grass, and taking a position where it seemed 

 to sail on the blue edge of the world, I found that it 

 loomed larger than the greatest vessels that had their 

 business in those waters, and was much pleased at the 

 notable figure my toy cut among the ships of men. 

 So we set pride of possession above the cold logic of 

 comparison, and each mother's son is a triumph, and 

 each man's particular toy a unique treasure. 



These rolling dunes are a home of many good 



