t. See, the sun is nearly below
the summit of the tallest oaks--we shall not have more than one hour of
daylight; and I must return here."

When we arrived at the _Mare_ of which I was in search, the immediate
neighbourhood of it was already silent and deserted. "Heavens!" said the
enchanted banker, "what a delightful spot! Quick!--where shall I place
myself? Let us look for the hut--ha! here it is, but half in ruins;" for
it had not, in all probability, been occupied three times in the last
three years; we were obliged therefore to cut some branches, and roughly
repair it; and the banker, having crept into the interior, like a sweep
up a chimney, requested to have his last instructions.

"Well, when night has nearly closed in," said I, laughing under my
moustache, "be on the _qui vive_. The woodcocks will be here, but move
not; be like a statue for a few minutes; let them approach--let them
come, fly and whirl, and look about them; then, when reassured by your
silence, they will fall into the shallow water, paddle in the grass, and
plunging throw their legs into the air. At that moment they are yours.
Take your time and a deliberate aim, and miss them not. The sport over,
remain where you are, and on our return we will join you."

"All you say is very clear and very pretty," replied the banker; "but I
feel already a horrid cramp in my left leg; and if I am to remain
crumpled up in this hut, like a Turk taking his coffee, or like a monkey
gnawing an apple, when you come for me I shall have lost the use of my
limbs."

"Oh! if that is likely to be your fate, walk about--stretch your legs;
you have yet twenty minutes before dark. Adieu, sir, adieu; and good
luck attend you; for myself, I must be off to my post." But I had gone
scarcely thirty yards when he shouted after me, "Oh! Henri--my dear
young friend--come back. Here! see, a pack of wolves! What do I say? no;
a whole family of bears has passed this way! Look! the border of the
_Mare_ is ploughed up by the feet of these savage brutes."

"Bears, sir! those marks are merely the trampling of the shepherds'
dogs."

"Shepherds' dogs! Stoop down--look closer; do you mean to tell me that
the shepherds' dogs have made these prints of cloven feet in the mud?"

"No! those are holes made by the young calves from some neighbouring
farm, that came to drink here," I replied, repressing a laugh.

"Nonsense! Henri; calves, indeed! they are the marks of buffaloes and
wild boa