to enduring
bronze.

On that day, wealthy and leisured, with an apple for my lunch and all
my time to myself, I decided to visit the brow of the neighboring hill,
hitherto looked upon as the boundary of the world. Right at the top is a
row of trees which, turning their backs to the wind, bend and toss about
as though to uproot themselves and take to flight. How often, from the
little window in my home, have I not seen them bowing their heads in
stormy weather; how often have I not watched them writhing like madmen
amid the snow dust which the north wind's broom raises and smoothes
along the hillside! 'What are they doing up there, those desolate trees?
I am interested in their supple backs, today still and upright against
the blue of the sky, tomorrow shaken when the clouds pass overhead. I
am gladdened by their calmness; I am distressed by their terrified
gestures. They are my friends. I have them before my eyes at every
hour of the day. In the morning, the sun rises behind their transparent
screen and ascends in its glory. Where does it come from? I am going to
climb up there and perhaps I shall find out.

I mount the slope. It is a lean grass sward close-cropped by the sheep.
It has no bushes, fertile in rents and tears, for which I should have to
answer on returning home, nor any rocks, the scaling of which involves
like dangers; nothing but large, flat stones, scattered here and there.
I. have only to go straight on, over smooth ground. But the sward is as
steep as a sloping roof. It is long, ever so long; and my legs are
very short. From time to time, I look up. My friends, the trees on the
hilltop, seem to be no nearer. Cheerily, sonny! Scramble away!

What is this at my feet? A lovely bird has flown from its hiding place
under the eaves of a big stone. Bless us, here's a nest made of hair
and fine straw! It's the first I have ever found, the first of the joys
which the birds are to bring me. And in this nest are six eggs, laid
prettily side by side; and those eggs are a magnificent blue, as though
steeped in a dye of celestial azure. Overpowered with happiness, I lie
down on the grass and stare.

Meanwhile, the mother, with a little clap of her gullet--'Tack!
Tack!'--flies anxiously from stone to stone, not far from the intruder.
My age knows no pity, is still too barbarous to understand maternal
anguish. A plan is running in my head, a plan worthy of a little beast
of prey. I will come back in a fortnight a