e of Mary Tavy. In reference to these villages a
very old joke is told of a Judge unacquainted with these parts who, in
trying a case, not unnaturally confused the names with those of
witnesses, and ordered that Peter and Mary Tavy be brought into court.
Mary Tavy has not the unusual attractiveness of Peter Tavy. It looks
barer, and is overshadowed by that peculiarly comfortless air always
given by chimneys or machinery of mines. The church stands above the
road, and beside it a large old tree, whose lower branches are so
abundantly covered with polypody that the fronds hang like long fringes
from either side of each branch. The porch has a white groined ceiling,
crossed with fragments of the old timber roof, on which are bosses
carved in different designs.

From Mary Tavy a road runs nearly parallel to the river. Beyond Horndon
the houses are fewer and more scattered, and somehow there is a
suggestion that one is coming nearer and nearer to the verge of
civilization. The few houses look nice in themselves, with the exception
of a farm, so cheerless and neglected-looking, that it was a surprise to
find it inhabited; and not far beyond this house the road reaches
another and very different farm, looking full of comfort--and goes no
farther. This farm has the significant name of Lane End, and one
realizes from its solitary, exposed position that the high and
substantial wall surrounding it was built for sound reasons. It stands
on the moor, and the cultivation is of the roughest kind; the fields,
such as they are, being plentifully sprinkled with huge boulders. In
winter, when there is much fear of snow, these fields serve as an
enclosure for the ponies that are driven-in off the moor--looking like
wild animals in their long, hanging, furry coats. The river is heard
dashing over the rocks below, and about a mile farther on is Tavy
Cleave.

The last time I saw it a vague threat hung over everything, adding a
cold fascination to the moor. The hills showed tints of faint green and
palest brown, and patches of bracken gave a consoling shade of russet.
Hare Tor rose beyond, silent and impressive, covered with snow. The Tavy
had a new beauty, for it was almost frozen over, and the dark water, and
along whirling scraps of foam, showed between the blocks of ice and
snow, and the boulders were each bordered with shining white. The sky
was heavy with snow-clouds, and beneath them and in the rifts were
stormy red sunset tints, whi