f the
ills of life. Our men of learning have given much thought to these two
maidens. They have turned over many books to find out about them, big
books, bound some in parchment, others in vellum, and many in pig-skin;
but they have never fathomed the reason why the two beautiful maidens
hold up a flower in their hands.

What they could not discover after so much labour and thought, so
many arduous days and sleepless nights, Mademoiselle Suzanne knew in a
moment.

Her papa had taken her to the Louvre, where he had business.
Mademoiselle Suzanne looked wonderingly at the antiques, and seeing gods
with missing arms and legs and heads, she said to herself: "Ah! yes,
these are the grown-up gentlemen's dolls; I see now gentlemen break
their dollies the same as little girls do." But when she came to the two
maidens who, each of them, hold a flower, she threw them a kiss, because
they looked so charming. Then her father asked her: "Why do they give
each other a flower?" And Suzanne answered at once: "To wish each other
a happy birthday." Then, after thinking a moment, she added:

"They have the same birthday; they are both alike and they are offering
each other the same flower. Girl friends should always have the same
birthday."

Now Suzanne is far away from the Louvre and the old Greek marbles; she
is in the kingdom of the birds and the flowers. She is spending the
bright spring days in the meadows under shelter of the woods. She plays
in the grass, and that is the sweetest sort of play. She remembers
to-day is her little friend Jacqueline's birthday; and so she is going
to pick flowers which she will give Jacqueline, and kiss her.

FISHING

[Illustration: 222]

JEAN set out betimes in the morning with his sister Jeanne, a
fishing-pole over his shoulder and a basket on his arm. It is holiday
time and the school is shut; that is why Jean goes off every day with
his sister Jeanne, a rod over his shoulder and a basket on his arm,
along the river bank. Jean is a Tourainer, and Jeanne a lass of
Touraine. The river is Tourainer too. It runs crystal-clear between
silvery sallows under a moist, mild sky. Morning and evening white mists
trail over the grass of the water-meadows.' But Jean and Jeanne love the
river neither for the greenery of its banks nor its clear waters that
mirror the heavens. They love it for the fish in it. They stop presently
at the most likely place, and Jeanne sits down under a pollard
willow.