of the prettiest lanes led away into the quiet country. Who that has ever walked through a genuine English lane forgets its charm? About our moorland village we found every variety, and studied the Devonshire verdure and blossom in many aspects. The roadways are generally narrow; a firm foot and wagon path, with close hedge-rows diversified by bramble, holly, woodbine, honeysuckle, and clematis. Sometimes the tangle of greenery hangs above a rugged stone wall or earthen embankment; sometimes tall trees break the line, and sway across the road with feathery branches through which the sunshine filters slowly; sometimes the banks are all delicately fringed with maiden-hair and ferns, the long fern and the broad-leafed growing in rich profusion, with here and there the color of some dainty wild flower. In the springtime we saw these hedges starred with primroses, and the lower edges plentiful

the voices and laughter of all that was fair and grand in Devon. Up stairs the rooms were perpetual surprises as we went from one to another through the picturesque corridors, dipping up and down, with queer angles, and high, deep windows. The most fascinating room of all was that prepared two hundred years ago for the birth of the heir. The roof was arched, the walls were wainscoted, and above was a beautiful frieze with vines and fruit in bass-relief, and over the carved mantel a huge shield with the family crest and coat of arms, and a Latin motto signifying force and courage and fidelity. Those mottoes of old families are fine souvenirs of power; they blazon forth the ambition, the ideal, the final tradition of an old house that perhaps contended for these brave virtues with feasting, riot, and decay. The nineteenth century had crept into the rooms with a slow and not ungraceful movement; bits of the artistic decoration of to-day show-ly colored with lenten lilies and crocuses ed here and there like paint and powder and the bold "daffadowndillies" which on a worn court beauty; the pale, faded flourish like gay maidens in the heart colors of the past, wherever they remain- of the west of England country. In the ed, were treasured with pious care; but later summer, when we went down to the of the medieval furniture which once moors, all the bold glory had vanished; graced the rooms hardly any was left, but there were still rich blossoms-foxand my lady's fireside looked curiously glove with stems of purple bells, blue rejuvenated with a deep cushioned chair flowers, narcissus that lays its pure pale before it covered with dainty chintz and blossoms so softly against the ferns, the lace. gleam of sweet-robin here and there, danIt was near this old manor that some delions, and a tiny white flower that rests

and finally, best of all, the intense glow of | lane, we came suddenly in view of the the scarlet poppy in fields and road-side, rich upland, with its alternate shades of blazing like live coals in the deep, cool verdure.

of Devonshire, between Exeter and Plymouth-a re

and flows into the sea at Dartmouth. Much of the

Behind all this, far back against the gion about ten miles wide and thirty in length; horizon, lay the rich dark coloring of the rocky, barren, uninhabited save by cattle and wild animals, covered with gorse and heather, but destimoor, which can not be written down, or tute of trees, by reason of the fierce blasts that rage even, I think, done justice to in painting; there at all times save in the mildest months of sumit formed the background for our little mer. The region takes its name from the beautiful village, its varied shades toning the per- river Dart, the English Rhine, which rises in the moor, spective with so rich and dark a beauty land belongs to the Prince of Wales, who visits it that all paler bloom seemed faded and occasionally to hunt the deer, this being now the only lustreless in comparison. The aspect of part of England where the native wild deer exists. The the moor is totally unlike that of any oth-country bordering upon this desolate region is densely er scene; it has an individual character as marked as that of the ocean, or the Alps, or the arctic ice-fields, and no amount of description prepares one against surprise on beholding it for the first time.*

Dartmoor, or "the Moor," is a famous tract of half-mountainous country lying across the centre VOL. LXI.-No. 361.-2

populated, and has been so for centuries; in fact, if we may judge from tradition, and also by the number of ancient Norman churches which dot the landscape, it is probable that the population of the rural districts was even greater four or five centuries ago than now. One can hardly drive a mile in any part of South Devon without seeing the towers of one or more of these picturesque old churches, and from a hill-top half a dozen may often be counted, but they are not half filled by the modern congregations.

As we drove away, a gust of wind sent some leaves rustling down upon the coach, not red and glistening autumn foliage such as we knew was coloring the banks of the Hudson across the water, but faded yellow leaves-the color that made an old-time poet speak of autumn as the "time of fading and decay." As we curved the hill-side, we looked back, and saw the little village embosomed in its rich uplands, peaceful, active, and primitive-a picture worth seeking and carrying away.

SPRING STEPS.

I.

there is enough of primitive festivity to the long lines of hedge and border. about them to make them amusing and entertaining spectacles. From far and near the farmers send their goods for sale on the great day the market-place is the scene of action, and all the minor inns of the town are brave with the decorations and good cheer of the occasion. Quite early in the day we arrived in the market town, which was a jumble of old times and new, one end fine with villas, crescents, and squares, and the smartness of provincial fashion, the other sleepy, quaint, and old-fashioned. The marketplace stood midway, circled around with fine market buildings, in which by ten o'clock every variety of booth was arranged. Out in the square the side shows and stalls were prominent, and the scene presented an appearance of the most exciting animation: "cheap Johns" raising their voices above the clown's shrill demand upon the public attention, jugglers tossing their knives deftly, and gypsies calling upon all the "pretty ladies" and gentlemen to have their fortunes told"Now, my lady, now, good gentleman, while luck 'waits ye." In the midst of these varied performances the soberer booths were ranged, all made attractive by the confection known as "fairings”a twisted colored sweet which all English children expect to have on fair-day. An aged friend of ours sent in some of the fanciful candy on this day, remarking he remembered buying it sixty years before, and nearly every fair-day since.

By night-time the fun and festivity culminated. A public ball was given in one of the market rooms; flaring lamps and torches flung a delusive glare over the tents, booths, and stands; the crowd became more emphatically of the countryside, and the clamor was rather boisterous. I don't know quite how long the festivity was kept up, nor how many sheep and cattle were sold; but as we drove out of the town early the next morning, we encountered slowly drawn vans and carts full of a jumble of goods and sleepy-looking people; a shepherd was lazily driving a remnant of his flock down a lane; a group of farmers were talking, with their thumbs in the air and their voices mellow. Our little village looked very peaceful when we came back to it for a final leave-taking. October had fairly come to send a deeper glow across the moorlands, and a fuller tone

ONCE more upon the hills my eager feet,
By Winter's spite too long imprisoned, run,
And 'mid the boscage, waking to the sun,
The happy heralds of the spring-time meet.
The shy arbutus in its masked retreat

Hides close, but vainly, its bright bloom begun,
For my hot greed hath ruthless rapine done
On baby blossoms faintly flushed and sweet.
The odorous pines are burnishing their green,
While dainty larches the infection take,

And out on the soft air their tassels shake,
As 'shamed to have their barren liveries seen.
So the brown maples and the birches white
Bestir themselves to mend their woful plight.

II.

Not yet the tender feet of bright-eyed May

The moss-veiled bosses of the woodland press;
A few bold buds, from Winter's dire duress
In happy freedom sprung, their charms display;
While here and there, along my random way,
Like cloudlets dropped, lie shreds of Winter's
dress,

Torn by the copses in his northward stress,
That chill the venturous violets with dismay,
Yet by their pallid contrast make more plain

The timid hues that flush the sleeping grass,
And bid its weary swoon of silence pass
Into the verdurous flow of life again.

I

Forever green, both weald and wold would lack
The charms December steals and May brings back.

III.

stand, this April-waning morn, between
The tears of Nature and her kindling mirth,
Between the sleep and waking of the Earth,
Whence this grand miracle is soonest seen.
A silent wonder floods the air serene,

In happy presage of the Spring's sweet birth,
Not Plenty's horn, poured in the lap of Dearth,
The gladness of whose coming can outmean.
O tuneful choirs, whose errant spies to-day
Are piping in the glades their herald notes,
Tune with your austral music all your throats,
And come to chant for us the birth of May.
Till then let April weep impatient tears,
Whose stress such after-wealth of beauty bears.

HIERONYMUS POP AND THE BABY.