a sheltered corner that invited
sleep, a glade where the shade was grateful, a spot beside the river's
brink where the fish used to bite. Each one says, "Don't you remember?"
Each one seeks his nest like a home-coming swallow. Does it still hold
together? What havoc has been made by the winter's winds, and the rain,
and the frost? Will it welcome us, as of old?

I, too, said to Lampron, "Don't you remember?" for we, too, have our
nest, and summer days that smile to us in memory. He was in the mood for
work, and hesitated. I added in a whisper, "The blackbird's pool!" He
smiled, and off we went.

Again, as of old, our destination was St. Germain--not the town, nor the
Italian palace, nor yet the terrace whence the view spreads so wide over
the Seine, the country dotted 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 Lampr