sects who crave
Your compassion--and then, look behind you
At yon barley-ears! Don't they look brave
As they undulate _(undulate_, mind you,
From _unda, a wave_).

The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it
Sounds here--(on account of our height)!
And this hillock itself--who could paint it,
With its changes of shadow and light?
Is it not---(never, Eddy, say "ain't it")--
A marvellous sight?

Then yon desolate eerie morasses,
The haunts of the snipe and the hern--
(I shall question the two upper classes
On _aquatiles_ when we return)--
Why, I see on them absolute masses
Of _felix_, or fern.

How it interests e'en a beginner
(Or _tiro_) like dear little Ned!
Is he listening? As I am a sinner,
He's asleep--he is wagging his head.
Wake up! I'll go home to my dinner,
And you to your bed.

The boundless ineffable prairie;
The splendour of mountain and lake,
With their hues that seem ever to vary;
The mighty pine-forests which shake
In the wind, and in which the unwary
May tread on a snake;

And this wold, with its heathery garment,
Are themes undeniably great.
But--although there is not any harm in't--
It's perhaps little good to dilate
On their charms to a dull little varmint
Of seven or eight.

TARTARIN DE TARASCON
[Sidenote: _Daudet_]

At the time of which I am speaking, Tartarin of Tarascon was not the
Tartarin that he is to-day, the great Tartarin of Tarascon, so popular
throughout the South of France. However--even then--he was already king
of Tarascon.

Let me tell you whence this kingship.

You must know, first, that every one there is a huntsman, from the
greatest to the smallest.

So, every Sunday morning, Tarascon takes arms and leaves the walls,
game-bag on the back, gun on the shoulder, with a commotion of dogs,
ferrets, trumpets, and hunting-horns. It is a superb sight.
Unfortunately, game is wanting, absolutely wanting.

However stupid animals may be, in the end they had become wary.

For five leagues round Tarascon warrens are empty, nests deserted. Not a
thrush, not a quail, not the least little rabbit, not the smallest
leveret.

And yet these pretty Tarascon hillocks are very tempting, perfumed with
myrtle, lavender, and rosemary; and these fine muscat grapes, swollen
with sweetness, which grow by the side of the Rhone, extremely
appetising too--yes, but there is Tarascon be