[2] The sweet poet.

  “Wassaile the trees, that they may beare
   You many a Plum, and many a Peare;
   For more or lesse fruites they will bring,
   As you doe give them Wassailing.”

   Hesperides.

“A brave rally o’ neighbours, sure ’nough,” cried Mr. Blee as he appeared amongst them.  “Be Gaffer Lezzard come?”

“Here, Billy.”

“Hast thy fire-arm, Lezzard?”

“Ess, ’t is here.  My gran’son’s carrying of it; but I holds the powder-flask an’ caps, so no ruin be threatened to none.”

Mr. Lezzard wore a black smock-frock, across the breast of which extended delicate and skilful needlework.  His head was hidden under an old chimney-pot hat with a pea-cock’s feather in it, and, against the cold, he had tied a tremendous woollen muffler round his neck and about his ears.  The ends of it hung down over his coat, and the general effect of smock, comforter, gaitered shanks, boots tied up in straw, long nose, and shining spectacles, was that of some huge and ungainly bird, hopped from out a fairy-tale or a nightmare.

“Be Maister Chappie here likewise?” inquired Billy.

“I’m waitin’; an’ I’ve got a fowling-piece, tu.”

“That’s gude then.  I be gwaine to carry the auld blunderbuss what’s been in Miller Lyddon’s family since the years of his ancestors, and belonged to a coach-guard in the King’s days.  ’T is well suited to apple-christenin’.  The cider’s here, in three o’ the biggest earth pitchers us’a’ got, an’ the lads is ready to bring it along.  The Maister Grimbals, as will be related to the family presently, be comin’ to see the custom, an’ Miller wants every man to step back-along arterwards an’ have a drop o’ the best, ‘cordin’ to his usual gracious gudeness.  Now, Lezzard, me an’ you’ll lead the way.”

Mr. Blee then shouldered his ancient weapon, the other veteran marched beside him, and the rest of the company followed in the direction of Chagford Bridge.  They proceeded across the fields; and along the procession bobbed a lantern or two, while a few boys carried flaring torches.  The light from these killed the moonbeams within a narrow radius, shot black tongues of smoke into the clear air, and set the meadows glimmering redly where contending radiance of moon and fire powdered the virgin snow with diamond and ruby.  Snake-like the party wound along beside the river.  Dogs barked; voices rang clear on the crystal night; now and again, with laughter and shout, the lads raced hither and thither from their stolid elders, and here and there jackets carried the mark of a snowball.  Behind the procession a trampled grey line stretched out under the moonlight.  Then all passed like some dim, magic pageant of a dream; the distant dark blot of naked woodlands swallowed them up, and the voices grew faint and ceased.  Only the endless song of the river sounded, with a new note struck into it by the world of snow.