s to the roof
that his wife has abandoned to go with him. The trophies remain in place
until the rain and wind destroy the baskets and carry off the cabbages.
But they live long enough to offer some chance of fulfilment of the
prophecy that the old men and matrons utter as they salute them.
"Beautiful cabbage," they say, "live and flourish, so that our young
bride may have a fine little baby before the end of the year; for if you
die too quickly, it will be a sign of sterility, and you will be stuck
up there on top of the house like an evil omen."

The day is far advanced before all these performances are at an end. It
only remains to escort the husband and wife to the godfathers and
godmothers. When these putative parents live at a distance, they are
escorted by the musicians and all the wedding-party to the limits of the
parish. There, there is more dancing by the roadside, and they kiss the
bride and groom when they take leave of them. The _paien_ and his wife
are then washed and dressed in clean clothes, when they are not so
fatigued by their roles that they have had to take a nap.

They were still dancing and singing and eating at the farm-house at
Belair at midnight on the third day of the festivities attending
Germain's wedding. The old men were seated at the table, unable to leave
it, and for good reason. They did not recover their legs and their wits
until the next day at dawn. At that time, while they sought their homes,
in silence and with uncertain steps, Germain, proud and well-content,
went out to yoke his cattle, leaving his young wife to sleep until
sunrise. The lark, singing as he flew upward to the sky, seemed to him
to be the voice of his heart, giving thanks to Providence. The
hoar-frost, glistening on the bare bushes, seemed to him the white April
blossoms that precede the appearance of the leaves. All nature was
serene and smiling in his eyes. Little Pierre had laughed and jumped
about so much the day before, that he did not come to help him to drive
his oxen; but Germain was content to be alone. He fell on his knees in
the furrow through which he was about to run his plough once more, and
repeated the morning prayer with such emotion that the tears rolled down
his cheeks, still moist with perspiration.

In the distance could be heard the songs of the youths from the
adjoining parishes, just starting for home, and repeating, in voices
somewhat the worse for wear, the merry refrains of the precedi