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Names of Tors and Hills
A Head Stone
Aller Brook Tor
Barn Hill Rocks
Brent Fore Hill
Chase Wood Rocks
Conies Down Tor
Corndon North Tor
Cripdon Down Tors
Easdon South Tor
East Mill Tor
Eastern White Barrow
Gibby Combe Tor
Great Combe Tors
Great Hound Tor
Great Gnats’ Head
Great Links Tor
Great Mis Tor
Great Staple Tor
Great Trowlesworthy Tor
Hayne Down Tors
Hedge Down Tor
Herne Hole Tor
Higher Dunnagoat Tor
Higher White Tor
Hurston Castle Tor
Kelly Mine Tor
Leusdon Lower Tor
Little Bee Tor
Little Boulters Tor
Little Combe Tor
Little Cox Tor
Little Crow Tor
Little Down Tor
Little Gnats’ Head
Little Fox Tor
Little Hare Tor
Little Hen Tor
Little Holwell Tor
Little Hound Tor
Little Kes Tor
Little King’s Tor
Little Leusdon Tor
Little Links Tor
Little Longaford Tor
Little Mis Tor
Little Pew Tor
Little Roos Tor
Little Sharp Tor
Little Staple Tor
Little Trowlesworthy Tor
Little White Tor
Low Man Tor
Lower Arms Tor
Lower Leather Tor
Lower Leighon Tor
Lower Dunnagoat Tor
Lower White Tor
Middle Staple Tor
Nat Tor, Lydford
North Hessary Tor
Old House Rocks
Parson’s Brown Loaf
Pixey Copse Tor
Prince Hall Rocks
Rock Copse Tors
Round Hill Tor
Sandy Hole Rocks
Smeardon Down Tors
Sonny Copse Tor
South Hessary Tor
Stonelands Waste (The Grotto)
Tavy Cleave Tor
Town Wood Crags
Tors End Tor
Trendlebere Down Tors
West Down Piles
Western White Barrow
West Mill Tor
White Ridge Tor
Wooder Goyle Rocks
The Succession of the Four Sweet Months by Robert Herrick
First, April, she with mellow showers
Opens the way for early flowers;
Then after her comes smiling May,
In a more rich and sweet array;
Next enters June, and brings us more
Gems than those two that went before:
Then (lastly) July comes, and she
More wealth brings in than all those three.
The Hock Cart or Harvest Home, Robert Herrick
Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil:
By whose tough labours and rough hands
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crowned with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing harvest home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dressed up with all the country art:
See here a maukin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure as it is sweet:
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad all in linen white as lilies.
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the hock-cart crowned.
About the cart, hear how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves,
Some prank them up with oaken leaves:
Some cross the fill-horse, some with great
Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat:
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boys, to your lord’s hearth,
Glitt’ring with fire, where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef:
With upper stories, mutton, veal
And bacon (which makes full the meal),
With sev’ral dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all-tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There’s that which drowns all care, stout beer;
Which freely drink to your lord’s health,
Then to the plough, the commonwealth,
Next to your flails, your fans, your fats,
Then to the maids with wheaten hats:
To the rough sickle, and crook’d scythe,
Drink, frolic boys, till all be blithe.
Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat
Be mindful that the lab’ring neat,
As you, may have their fill of meat.
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they’re hanged up now.
And, you must know, your lord’s word’s true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you;
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.
From The Radio of the Future, Vladimir Khlebnikov, 1921
The Radio of the Future–the central tree of our consciousness–will inaugurate new ways to cope with our endless undertakings and will unite all mankind.
The main Radio station, that stronghold of steel, where clouds of wires cluster like strands of hair, will surely be protected by a sign with a skull and crossbones and the familiar word “Danger,” since the least disruption of Radio operations would produce a mental blackout over the entire country, a temporary loss of consciousness.
Radio is becoming the spiritual sun of the country, a great wizard and sorcerer.
Let us try to imagine Radio’s main station: in the air a spider’s web of lines, a storm cloud of lightning bolts, some subsiding, some flaring up anew, crisscrossing the building from one end to the other. A bright blue ball of spherical lightning hanging in midair like a timid bird, guy wires stretched out at a slant.
From this point on Planet Earth, every day, like the flight of birds in springtime, a flock of news departs, news from the life of the spirit.
In this stream of lightning birds the spirit will prevail over force, good counsel over threats.
From Devonshire Characters and Strange Events, Sabine Baring Gould
John Fitz was riding over the moor one day with his wife, when they lost their direction, were, in fact, pixy-led, and they floundered through bogs, and could nowhere hit on the packhorse track that led across the moors from Moreton Hampstead to Tavistock. Exhausted and parched with thirst they lighted on a crystal stream, dismounted, and drank copiously of the water. Not only were they refreshed, but at once John Fitz’s eyes were opened, the spell on him was undone, and he knew where he was and which direction he should take. Thereupon he raised his hand and vowed he would honour that well, so that such travellers as were pixy-led might drink at it and dispel the power over them exercised by the pixies. The spring still flows and rises under a granite structure erected in fulfilment of his vow by John Fitz; it bears his initials and the date 1568 in raised figures and letters on the covering stone. Formerly it was on a slope in the midst of moorland away from the main track, near the Blackabrook. Now it is enclosed in the reclaimed tract made into meadows by the convicts of Princetown. Happily the structure has not been destroyed: it is surrounded by a protecting wall.