E-text prepared by Lionel Sear WANDERING HEATH. by ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH. 1895 This e-text was prepared from a reprint of a version published in 1895. The stories in this volume made their first appearance in England as follows: "The Roll-Call of the Reef" in _The Idler_; "The Looe Die-hards" in _The Illustrated London News_, where it was entitled "The Power o' Music"; "Jetsom" and "The Bishop of Eucalyptus" in _The Pall Mall Magazine_; "Visitors at the Gunnel Rock" in _The Strand Magazine_; "Flowing Source" in _The Woman at Home_; and the rest, with one exception, in the friendly pages of _The Speaker_. CONTENTS. PROLOGUE. THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF. THE LOOE DIE-HARDS. MY GRANDFATHER, HENDRY WATTY. JETSOM. WRESTLERS. THE BISHOP OF EUCALYPTUS. WIDDERSHINS. VISITORS AT THE GUNNEL ROCK. LETTERS FROM TROY-- I. THE FIRST PARISH MEETING. II. THE SIMPLE SHEPHERD. LEGENDS-- I. THE LEGEND OF SIR DINAR. II. "FLOWING SOURCE". EXPERIMENTS-- I. A YOUNG MAN'S DIARY. II. THE CAPTAIN FROM BATH. PROLOGUE. "What is the use of it?" the Poet demanded peevishly--it was New Year's Day in the morning. "People don't read my poetry when I have gone to the trouble of writing it!" "The more shame to them," said his wife. "But, my dear, you know you never read it yourself." "Oh, that is altogether different. Besides you _are_ improving, are you not?" She asked it a trifle anxiously, but the question set him off at once. "In twenty years' time--" he began eagerly. "--The boy will be at college." She laid down her needle and embroidery and, gazing into the fire, let her hands lie idle in her lap. "You might think of me." "I thought," she answered, "you were doing that." "Of yourself, then." "In twenty years' time--" She broke off with the faintest possible sigh. The Poet jumped up and went to his writing-desk. "That reminds me," he said, and produced a folded scrap of paper. "I wrote it last night. It's a sort of a little New Year's present--you need not read it, you know." "But I will": and she took the paper and read-- UPON NEW YEAR'S EVE Now winds of winter glue Their tears upon the thorn, And earth has voices few, And those forlorn. And 'tis our solemn night When maidens sand the porch, And play at Jack's Alight With burning torch, Or cards, or Kiss i' the Ring-- While ashen faggots blaze, And late wassailers sing In miry ways. Then, dear my wife, be blithe To bid the New Year hail And welcome--plough, drill, scythe, And jolly flail. For though the snows he'll shake Of winter from his head, To settle, flake by flake, On ours instead; Yet we be wreathed green Beyond his blight or chill, Who kissed at seventeen And worship still.