d. Yes, but they are not Dartmoor.' And there is no more to be
said.

A very truthful and vivid description of the moor has been given by the
late Mr R. J. King: 'The dusky sweep of hills stretches away with an
endless variety of form and outline; in some parts sharply peaked, and
crested with masses of broken rock; at others, rounded and massive, and
lifting a long line of sombre heath against the sky. The deep hollows
which separate the hills are thickly covered with fern and heather, over
which blocks of granite are scattered in all directions; and, as in all
similar districts, each valley has its own clear mountain stream, which
receives the innumerable waterfalls descending from the hill-sides. The
whole country has a solitude, and an impressive grandeur, which
insensibly carries back the mind to an earlier and ruder age.'

'... Granite-browed, thou sitt'st in grandeur lone,
Thy temples wreathed with heaven's unsalted mist;
Feet in the brine, and face veiled by the cloud,
And vestiture by changing nature wrought--
Titan of earth and sky--silent and proud,
Even beauty kneeling hath her homage brought.
Time as a shadow speeds across thy plains,
Leaving no record of his printless feet;

* * * * *

And all our generations come and go,
As snowflakes on thy shoulders melting slow.'[3]

[Footnote 3: W. H. Hamilton Rogers, 'Dartmoor.']

Let the time or season be what it may, the moor has some fresh charm to
offer. In the early summer there is a special soft greenness, and the
hot air quivers above and about the rocks; later the hill-sides are
coloured by the lilac-pink of the ling and the richer tones of
bell-heather; and when the autumn leaves are fading and falling
'inland,' there may come such a day of sunshine and glorious blue sky,
with the larks singing on every side among the golden furze-blossoms,
that one is able to forget the calendar. And then, amongst the great
boulders covered with white lichen that lie along the sides of streams,
the leaves of the whortleberries turn scarlet over the little round
fruit, with its plum-like bloom. Sometimes in winter the snow lies in
patches on the hills, among stretches of pale grass and rich, dark,
red-brown masses of heather. On the edge of the moor, the springs by the
roadsides flow through a sparkling white border into a shining ice
hollow, and, looking away, one sees snow-covered heights aga