Dartmoor is a much more prolific "mother of rivers" than Exmoor. In one of the loneliest and dreariest regions of the southern "forest," no great way from its northern extremity, is the quagmire known as Cranmere Pool, and from this and the sloughs that surround it ooze all the more important of the Devonshire streams except the Exe and the Torridge. Out of Cranmere Pool itself--a prison, according to local legend, of lost spirits, whose anguished cries are often borne on the wings of the wind--the West Okement drains, to flow northwards to the Torridge; and at distances varying from half a mile to a couple of miles, the Teign, the Dart, the Tavy, and the Taw have their birth. The Okement will be noticed presently, when we have to do with the Torridge; of the other rivers, the /Teign/ rises in two headstreams, the North and the South Teign, near Sittaford Tor. As is the way of these moorland waters, they are soon reinforced by tributary rills, among them the Wallabrook, which flows by Scorhill Down to join the North Teign. Scorhill Down has in its stone circle one of the most remarkable of those mysterious relics of an immemorial past in which Dartmoor abounds. At one time all such remains were regarded, like those at Stonehenge, as Druidical monuments, but this theory of their origin is no longer in fashion, and antiquaries now prefer to say nothing more specific than that they usually have a sepulchral significance, and betoken that regions now abandoned to the curlew and the buzzard once had a considerable population. Near Scorhill the Wallabrook is bestridden by a "clam" bridge, which, interpreted, means a bridge of a single slab of unhewn stone resting on the ground, as distinguished from a "clapper" bridge, consisting of one or more such slabs pillared on others, with no aid from mortar. The North and the South Teign merge at Leigh Bridge, close by Holy Street and its picturesque mill, which has furnished a theme for the pencil of many an artist besides Creswick. Then the Teign flows under the old bridge at Chagford, a village overhung on one side by two rocky hills. The fine air of the place and its convenient situation for the exploration of Dartmoor bring to it many visitors in the summer; but it is certainly no place for a winter sojourn. The story goes--and racy of the soil it is--that if a Chagford man is asked in summer where he lives, he replies, as saucily as you please, "Chaggyford, and what d'ye think, then?" But if the question is put to him in winter, he sadly answers, "Chaggyford, good Lord!"