'"Undescribed sounds That come a-swooning over hollow ground, And wither drearily on barren moors," will scarcely wonder that the spirits of the elder world should not yet have been effectually dislodged from their ancient solitudes.... The Pixies, thoroughly mischievous elves, who delight to lead all wanderers astray, dwell in the clefts of broken granite, and dance on the green sward by the side of the hill streams; ... sometimes, but very rarely, they are seen dancing by the streams dressed in green, the true livery of the small people. They ride horses at night, and tangle their manes into inextricable knots. They may be heard pounding their cider and threshing their wheat far within the recesses of their "house" on Sheepstor--a cavern formed by overhanging blocks of granite. Deep river pools and deceitful morasses, over which the cotton grass flutters its white tassels, are thought to be the "gates" of their country, where they possess diminutive flocks and herds of their own. Malicious, yet hardly demoniacal, they are precisely Dryden's "spirits of a middle sort"-- "Too black for heaven, and yet too white for hell, Who just dropped half-way down, nor lower fell" --a character which cannot, however, be assigned to their unearthly companions, the wish-hounds. These have no redeeming tinge of white, and belong to the gloomiest portion of the underworld.' A true lover of the moor, and very sensitive to its element of mystery, Mr King has put what he has seen and imagined into verse that must be most appreciated by those who know the Forest best: THE FOREST OF THE DARTMOORS. The purple heather flowers are dark In the hollow of the hill, Though far along each rocky peak The sunlight lingers still; Dark hang the rushes o'er the stream-- There is no sound below, Save when the fern, by the night's wind stirred. Waves gently to and fro. Thou old wild forest! many a dream Of far-off glamoury, Of gentle knight and solemn sage, Is resting still on thee. Still float the mists across the fells, As when those barons bold, Sir Tristram and Sir Percival, Sped o'er the weary wold. * * * * * Then through the glens of the folding hills. And over the heath so brown, King Arthur leads his belted knights Homewards to Carlyoun; A goodly band, with long white spears, Upon their shoulders set, And first of all that Flower of Kings With his golden coronet. And sometimes, by the clear hill streams, A knight rides on alone; He rideth ever beside the river, Although the day be done; For he looketh toward the western land Where watcheth his ladye, On the shore of the rocky Cornewayle, In the castle by the sea. * * * * *