[Illustration:  BUCKLAND ABBEY.]

One of the earliest stories of the “lost on the moors” was connected with that road.  Childe, the “Hunter of Plymstock,” had been hunting in one of the wildest districts on Dartmoor, and was returning home at night, when a heavy snowstorm came on and the night became bitterly cold.  Having completely lost his way, and as his tired horse could go no farther, he stopped at one of the ancient crosses and dismounted.  His blood, however, began to freeze within him, and to try to save his own life he killed his horse, and, cutting a great hole in its body, crept inside.  When daylight came in the morning, knowing he was dying, and that some of the monks would probably find his body when they came to the cross, he dipped his fingers in his horse’s blood and scribbled on the stone: 

  They fyrste that fyndes and brings mee to my grave,
  The Priorie of Plymstocke they shall have.

His body was found by the “monks of Tavystoke,” and buried in their abbey at Tavistock; and from that time to the dissolution of the monasteries the Abbey of Tavistock had possession of the manor of Plymstock, Childe having no children to follow him.

We were sorry that we had been unable to explore Dartmoor itself instead of only its fringes, so we decided to make an effort to see Dartmoor Prison, which we were given to understand was only a few miles away.  We changed our course a little and passed on to Walkhampton, where we were advised to follow the by-road above the Walkham river, from which the village took its name, this being the easiest and most pleasant way.  We had a nice walk along the valley until we reached Merridale, but there we succumbed to the attractions of the small inn.  We felt that we should never be able to wait for food until we reached Tavistock, as the mountain air and the exertion of climbing up the hill had been too much for us, so we ordered refreshments there instead of at Tavistock, as originally intended.  We had loitered a little on our way up the hill, stopping to look at the views behind us, which were better than those in front—­a necessary procedure, for we were rather inclined at times “to keep our noses too near the grindstone,” or perhaps, like Othello, to be “led by the nose as asses are,” and to toil up the hills with the wilderness before us, in total forgetfulness of the lovely scenes behind.  We therefore advise all tourists on a walking expedition to look back occasionally, since much of the pleasure and beauty of the tour may otherwise be lost.

[Illustration:  VIXEN TOR, TAVISTOCK.]