how be you?" Farmer "lookid up," with astonishment, and said: "I doan't naw you-how did you naw me ?" "Oh! I know you very well, you're an old acquaintance of mine. What d'ye want to buy?" "Be you Betty that used to live at Sticklepath ?" enquired our ancient friend. "No, I'm not," replied the girl. "Lor, I thort you was, you gaped so, jest lik her." "How very polite you are farmer John!" rejoined the maiden. "Eees, we alleys be in our paert, and if you Plymouth maids want to buy any aw tha article us have a got a good stock by us, and can sell et too ee cheap. That's moar than thee cans't zay." "Upon which," said venerable Farmer John, in relating the story to a boon companion, "Her drade in her sheep's hayd, and shet down the winder in a mortal vrisk." If the soil is not so rich here, as in many more favoured localities, the expense of cultivation is small; and the wants of the dwellers by the Moor are few and simple. As a rule they eat to live, and dress to please themselves, and suit the weather. There is no strain or fuss here—no artificial veneering and lacquering-no fear of Mrs. Grundy. The silent, solemn hills criticise not, but admonish those who live near them to be simple, and real, and substantial as they. Belstone Church is an ancient edifice, but it is said to be very much dilapidated, especially in the interior. Neither can it boast of a very large congregation-six souls being about the average attendance. Was it here that the parson, when preaching from the words-"One said he had married a wife, and therefore could not come," declared that this was a paltry excuse, for he could have brought her behind him on a pillion ?" I put this question to a Dartmoorian, but he "doant naw." In the coolness and calmness of the evening we left the pleasant farm-house of our friends, and bade farewell to their smiling faces and warm hearts. So joyous and grateful for a real day's recreation were some of my companions that they could not resist the opportunity of distributing largesse in the shape of nimble coppers to groups of children as we passed through hamlets on our homeward way. "Why not give to little English children, as well as to young Patagonians and Kaffirs?" asked one of the company. Ah! why not? Verily the beaming faces of the little ones were a sufficient reward to the givers. As we approached the old city the evening light had faded; the silver stars were shining serenely upon us; and the whole earth was wrapped in folds of love. DUNSFORD TO FINGLE, AND Everywhere in Devonshire may be seen pictures of God's eternal beauty, which cannot be looked at by those who have "eyes to see " without great refreshment of the mind and elevation of the soul. Go to these great pictures, in reverential and meditative mood, and we hear The voice of wisdom whispering gracious words A whole day's ramble by the beautiful Teign was long contemplated by me. I had seen small portions of the picturesque river, and the romantic scenery that environs it, on several occasions. These peeps had the effect of whetting the appetite, and of causing me, like Oliver Twist, to crave "for more." Not long since I sallied forth from the old city, with a couple of friends for a ramble by the Teign. The weather, like life, alternated between sunshine and shower, and light and shadow, but the spirits of the travellers by the Teign were not so. They were sus tainedly vivacious and bright; indifferent to showers; calm amidst difficulties-such as an unanticipated turn-up, by reason of treacherously slippery stones, or the entanglement in thickets of wind-blown hair. Who that has traversed the road from the old city by picturesque Crossmead, Pocombe Quarry, and over Longdown, by wooded Fordlands and breezy Perridge (where Cotley Camp, 320 yards in circumference, can be seen), without being inspired by the glorious scenery, and exhilarated by the bracing air, fresh from the hills of Dartmoor? Descending into the valley of Culver there is the silent woodland-flower-be-sprent, bee-and-bird-haunted—with its huge, far spreading trees a-glow here and there with Autumnal tints of russet and red. By a dancing, merry, melodious millstream we passed; and Dunsford Bridge was at length reached. This spot of itself is sufficient to fill the mind and soul with visions of beauty that shall last him for many a long day. Wooded slopes that seem to touch the sky and water, with here and there jutting cliffs that look in the twilight like grim genii of the place, impress the eye with their majesty and beauty. The Half Moon Inn sheds a peaceful light of hospitality on the place. Hither come fishermen and pic-nic parties, bent on joviality-to bathe in the river, and to snare the swift and timid fish that swim therein. The guide-books point to a good path on the left bank of the river, but we take the right bank, by directions of the Half Moon hostess, and other judicious and experienced dwellers in this happy valley. We walked in sunshine and in "scad "—the latter being a somewhat unpoetical local term for passing showers of misty rain-through bramble and thicket, through underwood and ferns, that reached up to our chins, stopping to gather nuts and blackberries, and to listen to the varying music of the beautiful stream. How joyful, melodious, earnest, and even solemn were the tones of the river! Now it Chatters over stony ways In little sharps and trebles; And anon it seemed to be singing sweetly A love song I had somewhere read, An echo from a measured strain, The phantom of a silent song That went and came a thousand times. The beech trees stretched their graceful arms across the deep and silent pools, as though unwilling to permit the unscrupulous wind to play at ripples with the smooth and glassy surface! The birds came down to play at hide and seek, to touch the water with their wings, and then mounted up and basked in the sunbeams, refreshed, and newly-inspired for jubilant song and ærial revelry. Treasures, botanical, herbaceous, entomological, and otherwise, were all about us; but with the fear of our local savans of the Naturalist's Society before me, I must not tread on the delicate ground of scientific description. Reaching Clifford Bridge we enjoyed a passing glance of the picturesque old mill, and the hill (which descends precipitously to the river side), on which is Wooston Castle. We pursued our devious, and somewhat difficult course, by the river to Fingle Bridge. A very picturesque object is that old ivy-clad structure, and so also is the solitary mill, just below it. Tarrying here awhile, we feasted our eyes on the magnificent scenery of mountainous heights and sylvan depths, which here abound. Beautiful exceedingly are the ever-changing features of the river scenery. Imposing, majestic hills, their sides and summits glowing with heather and gorse, rise skyward to an immense height, and seem to overlap and embrace each other. Bounding over slippery stones, we boldly marched through little jungles, battalions of trees, and forests of ferns As the evening shadows were about to descend, we found ourselves at Sandy Park, two miles from Drews |