tas_) are mentioned.'

'The average height is 12-1/2 hands, and bays and buffy bays with mealy
noses prevail; in fact, are in the majority of three to one.' The older
ponies live out all the year round, but stacks of hay and straw are
built by the herdsmen against the time when the snow lies deep. 'Still,
like honest, hard-working labourers, the ponies never assemble at the
wicket till they have exhausted every means of self-support by
scratching with their fore-feet in the snow for the remnants of the
summer tufts, and drag wearily behind them an ever-lengthening chain of
snowballs.'

The moor makes an excellent sheep-walk, but attempts to cultivate it
have not prospered. As far as agriculturists are concerned, 'Exmoor is
best left alone--the "peat and heather in hill and dale."'

There is an old ballad called 'The Farmer's Son of Devonshire,' in which
the views of one character, 'Brother Jack,' show a distinct resemblance
to those of the great John Fry in 'Lorna Doone.' Here are a few verses.
The sub-title is a long one, beginning: 'Being the Valiant Coronel's
Return from Flanders.' To the tune of 'Mary, live long.'

'WILL. Well met, Brother Jack, I've been in Flanders
With valiant Commanders, and am return'd back to England again;
Where a while I shall stay, and shall then march away;
I'm an Officer now.
Go with me, dear Brother, go with me, dear Brother,
And lay by the Plow.
I tell thee, old boy, the son of a farmer,
In glittering armour, may kill and destroy
A many proud French;
As a Squire or Knight, having courage to fight,
Then valiantly go,
In arms like a Soldier, in arms like a Soldier,
To face the proud foe.

'JACK. But, dear Brother Will, you are a vine yellow,
And talk mighty mellow, but what if they kill
Thy poor brother Jack
By the pounce of a gun? If they shou'd I'm undone.
You know that I never, you know that I never,
Had courage to fight.

[WILL replies at some length.]

'JACK. The enemies' men with horror will fill me,
Perhaps they may kill me, and where am I then?
This runs in my mind;
Should I chance to be lame, will the trophies of _Fame_
Keep me from sad groans?
A fig for that honour, a fig for that honour,
Which brings broken bones.

'Such honour I scorn, I'd rather be mowing,
Nay, plowi