and quoting poetry and trying
to be literary and all that! C'est plus fort que moi....

One beautiful evening after dinner we went, the whole lot of us,
fishing for crayfish in the meadows beyond the home farm.

As we set about waiting for the crayfish to assemble round the bits
of dead frog that served for bait and were tied to the wire scales
(which were left in the water), a procession of cows came past us
from the farm. One of them had a wound in her flank--a large tumor.

"It's the bull who did that," said Marie. "Il est tres mechant!"

Presently the bull appeared, following the herd in sulky dignity. We
all got up and crossed the stream on a narrow plank--all but
Josselin, who remained sitting on a camp-stool.

"Josselin! Josselin! venez donc! il est tres mauvais, le taureau!"

Barty didn't move.

The bull came by; and suddenly, seeing him, walked straight to
within a yard of him--and stared at him for five minutes at least,
lashing its tail. Barty didn't stir. Our hearts were in our mouths!

Then the big brindled brute turned quietly round with a friendly
snort and went after the cows--and Barty got up and made it a
courtly farewell salute, saying, "Bon voyage--au plaisir!"

After which he joined the rest of us across the stream, and came in
for a good scolding and much passionate admiration from the ladies,
and huggings and tears of relief from Madame Laferte.

"I knew well he wouldn't be afraid!" said M. Laferte; "they are all
like that, those English--le sang-froid du diable! nom d'un
Vellington! It is we who were afraid--we are not so brave as the
little Josselin! Plucky little Josselin! But why did you not come
with us? Temerity is not valor, Josselin!"

"Because I wanted to show off [_faire le fanfaron_]!" said Barty,
with extreme simplicity.

"Ah, diable! Anyhow, it was brave of you to sit still when he came
and looked at you in the white of the eyes! it was just the right
thing to do; ces Anglais! je n'en reviens pas! a quatorze ans! hein,
ma femme?"

"Pardi!" said Barty, "I was in such a blue funk [j'avais une venette
si bleue] that I couldn't have moved a finger to save my life!"

At this, old Polyphemus went into a Homeric peal of laughter.

"Ces Anglais! what originals--they tell you the real truth at any
cost [ils vous disent la vraie verite, coute que coute]!" and his
affection for Barty seemed to increase, if possible, from that
evening.

[Illustration: FANFARONNADE]

Now this