ed with villas, to Montmartre blue in the
distance--not these, but the forest. "Our forest," we call it; for we
know all its young shoots, all its giant trees, all its paths where
poachers and young lovers hide. With my eyes shut I could find the
blackbird's pool, the way to which was first shown us by a deer.

Imagine at thirty paces from an avenue, a pool--no, not a pool (the
word is incorrect), nor yet a pond--but a fountain hollowed out by the
removal of a giant oak. Since the death of this monarch the birches
which its branches kept apart have never closed together, and the
fountain forms the centre of a little clearing where the moss is thick
at all seasons and starred in August with wild pinks. The water, though
deep, is deliciously clear. At a depth of more than six feet you can
distinguish the dead leaves at the bottom, the grass, the twigs, and
here and there a stone's iridescent outline. They all lie asleep there,
the waste of seasons gone by, soon to be covered by others in their
turn. From time to time out of the depths of these submerged thickets
an eft darts up. He comes circling up, quivering his yellowbanded tail,
snatches a mouthful of air, and goes down again head first. Save for
these alarms the pool is untroubled. It is guarded from the winds by a
juniper, which an eglantine has chosen for its guardian and crowns each
year with a wreath of roses. Each year, too, a blackbird makes his nest
here. We keep his secret. He knows we shall not disturb him. And when I
come back to this little nook in the woods, which custom has endeared to
us, merely by looking in the water I feel my very heart refreshed.

"What a spot to sleep in!" cried Lampron. "Keep sentry, Fabien; I am
going to take a nap."

We had walked fast. It was very hot. He took off his coat, rolled it
into a pillow, and placed it beneath his head as he lay down on the
grass. I stretched myself prone on a velvety carpet of moss, and gave
myself up to a profound investigation of the one square foot of ground
which lay beneath my eyes. The number of blades of grass was
prodigious. A few, already awned, stood above their fellows, waving
like palms-meadowgrass, fescue, foxtail, brome-grass--each slender stalk
crowned with a tuft. Others were budding, only half unfolded, amid
the darker mass of spongy moss which gave them sustenance. Amid
the numberless shafts thus raised toward heaven a thousand paths
crisscrossed, each full of obstacles-chips of b