i 5 4 MY DEVON YEAR 



ferns skirt her silver and adorn the way with masses 

 of foliage seen emerald-bright against the dark ivy, 

 the black earth, and mysterious blue shadows of the 

 banks. 



A forest whispers here, and the croon of doves 

 shall be heard sobbing in time to the murmur of 

 the wind in the fir trees. Then birds and breeze 

 are still, and the river is very still also, where she 

 winds unruffled through silence censed by the pine. 

 A jewel-bright halcyon flits through the mazes of 

 chequered sunlight that scatter golden sequins and 

 arrows in the heart of the stream, and creatures less 

 lovely also move here and there all things great and 

 small, furred and feathered, about the first business 

 of life. In many a glade by the river's way, bryony 

 and woodbine mingle, and ferns trail along the 

 tide. A hundred water -lovers crowd the brink ; 

 and the little melampyre brightens all the dewy 

 under -world of the great woods with pale light. 

 Sometimes beaches of pebbles extend to the river 

 from the margins of the forest, and beneath the 

 water, where it spreads glassy smooth, between one 

 tumble of stickles and the next, sharp eyes may see 

 the salmon. They look like grey shadows poised 

 in the crystal ; their heads turned to the Moor ; 

 their tails gently moving where they bide awhile 

 on the journey, their goggled eyes turned upward, 

 like the eyes of creatures praying. They rest here 

 in the Mother's hollowed hand, then, strong to pursue 

 the instinct within, swim on, fight each silver fall in 



