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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 Master Archimbaud was nearly a hundred years old. He had been
formerly a rugged man of war, but now, crippled and paralysed with age, he
never left his bed, being unable to move.
Old Master Archimbaud had three sons. One morning he called the
eldest to him and said:
“Come here, Archimbalet! While lying quiet in my bed and meditating,
for the bedridden have time for reflection, I remembered that once in the
midst of a battle, finding myself in mortal danger, I vowed if God delivered
me to go on a pilgrimage to Rome.... Alas, I am as old as earth! and can no
longer go on a journey; I wish, my son, that thou wouldst make that
pilgrimage in my stead; sorely it troubles me to die without accomplishing
my vow.”
The eldest son replied:
“What the devil has put this into your head, a pilgrimage to Rome and I
don’t know where else! Father, eat, drink, lie still in your bed and say as
many Paternosters as you please! but the rest of us have something else to
do.”
The next morning, Master Archimbaud called to him his second son:
“Listen, my son,” he said; “meditating here on my bed and reviewing the
past—for, seest thou, in bed one has leisure for thinking—I remembered
that once, in a fight, finding myself in mortal danger, I vowed to God to
make the great journey to Rome.... Alas! I am old as earth! I can no longer
go to the wars. Greatly I desire that thou wouldest in my stead make the
pilgrimage to Rome.”
The second son replied:
“Father, in two weeks we shall have the hot weather! Then the fields
must be ploughed, the vines dressed, the hay cut. Our eldest must take the
flocks to the mountains; the youngest is nought but a boy. Who will give the
orders if I go to Rome, idling by the roads? Father, eat, sleep, and leave us
in peace.”
Next morning good Master Archimband called his youngest son:
“Espérit, my child, approach,” said he; “I promised the good God to
make a pilgrimage to Rome.... But I am old as earth! I can no longer go to
the wars.... I would gladly send thee in my place, poor boy. But thou art too
young, thou dost not know the way; Rome is very far, my God! should
some misfortune overtake thee ...!”
“My father, I will go,” answered the youth.
But the mother cried:
“I will not have thee go! This old dotard, with his war and his Rome,
will end by getting on our nerves; not content with grumbling, complaining
and moaning the whole year through, he will send now this poor dear
innocent where he will only get lost.”
“Mother,” said the young son, “the wish of a father is an order from
God! When God commands, one must go.”
And Espérit, without further talk, went and filled a small gourd with
wine, took some bread and onions in his knapsack, put on his new shoes,
chose a good oaken stick from the wood-house, threw his cloak over his
shoulder, embraced his old father, who gave him much good advice, bade
farewell to all his relations, and departed.
II
But before taking the road, he went devoutly to hear the blessed Mass;
and was it not wonderful that on leaving the church he found on the
threshold a beautiful youth who addressed him in these words:
“Friend, are you not going to Rome?”
“I am,” said Espérit.
“And I also, comrade: If it pleases you, we could make the journey
together.”
“Willingly, my friend.”
Now this gracious youth was an angel sent by God. Espérit and the angel
then set forth on
 Félix Gras. Poet and Félibre.

the road to Rome; and thus, joyfully, through sunshine and shower, begging
their bread and singing psalms, the little gourd at the end of a stick, they
arrived at last in the city of Rome.
Having rested, they paid their devotions at the great church of Saint
Peter, they visited in turn the basilicas, the chapels, the oratories, the
sanctuaries, and all the sacred monuments, kissed the relics of the Apostles
Peter and Paul, of the virgins, the martyrs, and also of the true Cross, and
finally, before leaving, they saw the Pope, who gave them his blessing.
Then Espérit with his companion went to rest under the porch of Saint
Peter, and Espérit fell asleep. Now in his sleep the pilgrim saw in a dream
his mother and his brothers burning in hell, and he saw himself with his
father in the eternal glory of the Paradise of God.
“Alas! if this is so,” he cried, “I beseech thee, my God, that I may take
out of the flames my mother, my poor mother, and my brothers!”
And God replied:
“As for thy brothers, it is impossible, for they have disobeyed my
commandments; but thy mother, perhaps, if thou canst, before her death,
make her perform three charities.”
Then Espérit awoke. The angel had disappeared.
In vain he waited, searched for him, inquired after him, nowhere could
he be found, and Espérit was obliged to leave Rome all alone.
He went toward the sea-coast, where he picked up some shells with
which he ornamented his cloak and his hat, and from there, slowly, by high
roads and by-paths, valleys, and mountains, begging and praying, he came
again to his own country.
III
It was thus he arrived at last at his native place and his own home. He
had been away about two years. Haggard and wasted, tanned, dusty, ragged
and bare-foot, with his little gourd at the end of his staff, his rosary and his
shells, he was unrecognisable. No one knew him as he made his way to the
paternal door and, knocking, said gently:
“For God’s sake, I pray of your charity give to the poor pilgrim.”
“Oh what a nuisance you are! Every day some of you pass here—a set of
vagabonds, scamps, and vagrants!”
“Alas! my spouse,” said the poor old Archimbaud from his bed, “give
him something: who knows but our son is perhaps even at this moment in
the same need!”
Then the woman, though still grumbling, went off, and cutting a hunk of
bread, gave it to the poor beggar.
The following day the pilgrim returned again to the door of his parents’
house, saying:
“For God’s sake, my mistress, give a little charity to the poor pilgrim.”
“What! you are here again!” cried the old woman. “You know very well
I gave to you yesterday—these gluttons would eat one out of house and
home.”
“Alas, good wife!” interposed the good old Archimbaud, “didst thou not
eat yesterday and yet thou hast eaten again to-day? Who knows but our son
may be in the same sad plight!”
And again his wife relenting went off and fetched a slice of bread for the
poor beggar.
The next day Espérit returned again to his home and said:
“For God’s sake, my mistress, grant shelter to the poor pilgrim.”
“Nay,” cried the hard old body, “be off with you and lodge with the
ragamuffins!”
“Alas, wife!” interposed again the good old Archimbaud, “give him
shelter: who knows if our own child, our poor Espérit, is not at this very
hour exposed to the severity of the storm.”
“Ah, yes, thou art right,” said the mother, softening, and she went at
once and opened the door of the stable; then poor Espérit entered, and on
the straw behind the beasts he crouched down in a corner.
At early dawn the following morning the mother and brothers of Espérit
went to open the stable door.... Behold the stable was all illumined, and
there lay the pilgrim, stiff and white in death, while four tall tapers burned
around him. The straw on which he was stretched was glistening, the
spiders’ webs, shining with rays, hung from the beams above, like the
draperies of a mortuary chapel. The beasts of the stall, mules and oxen,
pricked up startled ears, while their great eyes brimmed with tears. A
perfume of violets filled the place, and the poor pilgrim, his face all
glorious, held in his clasped hands a paper on which was written: “I am
your son.”
Then all burst into tears, and falling on their knees, made the sign of the
cross: Espérit was henceforth a saint.
(Almanach Provençal, 1879.)
JARJAYE IN PARADISE
Jarjaye, a street-porter of Tarascon, having just died, with closed eyes
fell into the other world. Down and down he fell! Eternity is vast, pitch-
black, limitless, lugubrious. Jarjaye knew not where to set foot, all was
uncertainty, his teeth chattered, he beat the air. But as he wandered in the
vast space, suddenly he perceived in the distance, a light, it was far off, very
far off. He directed himself towards it; it was the door of the good God.
Jarjaye knocked, bang, bang, on the door.
“Who is there?” asked Saint Peter.
“It’s me!” answered Jarjaye.
“Who—thou?”
“Jarjaye.”
“Jarjaye of Tarascon?”
“That’s it—himself!”
“But you good-for-nothing,” said Saint Peter, “how have you the face to
demand entrance into the blessed Paradise, you who for the last twenty
years have never said your prayers, who, when they said to you, ‘Jarjaye,
come to Mass,’ answered ‘I only go to the afternoon Mass!’ thou, who in
derision calledst the thunder, ‘the drum of the snails;’ thou did’st eat meat
on Fridays, saying, ‘What does it matter, it is flesh that makes flesh, what
goes into the body cannot hurt the soul;’ thou who, when they rang the
Angelus, instead of making the sign of the cross like a good Christian, cried
mocking, ‘A pig is hung on the bell’; thou who, when thy father
admonished thee, ‘Jarjaye, God will surely punish thee,’ answered, ‘The
good God, who has seen him? Once dead one is well dead.’ Finally, thou
who didst blaspheme and deny the holy oil and baptism, is it possible that
thou darest to present thyself here?”
The unhappy Jarjaye replied:
“I deny nothing, I am a sinner. But who could know that after death there
would be so many mysteries! Any way, yes, I have sinned. The medicine is
uncorked—if one must drink it, why one must. But at least, great Saint
Peter, let me see my uncle for a little, just to give him the latest news from
Tarascon.”
“What uncle?”
“My Uncle Matéry, he who was a White Penitent.”
“Thy Uncle Matéry! He is undergoing a hundred years of purgatory!”
“Malédiction! a hundred years! Why what had he done amiss?”
“Thou rememberest that he carried the cross in the procession. One day
some wicked jesters gave each other the word, and one of them said, ‘Look
at Matéry, who is carrying the cross;’ and a little further another repeated,
‘Look at Matéry, who is carrying the cross,’ and at last another said like
this, ‘Look, look at Matéry, what is he carrying?’ Matéry got angry, it
appears, and answered, ‘A jackanapes like thee.’ And forthwith he had a
stroke and died in his anger.”
“Well then, let me see my Aunt Dorothée, who was very, very religious.”
“Bah! she must be with the devil, I don’t know her.”
“It does not astonish me in the least that she should be with the devil, for
in spite of being so devout and religious, she was spiteful as a viper. Just
imagine——”
“Jarjaye, I have no leisure to listen to thee: I must go and open to a poor
sweeper whose ass has just sent him to Paradise with a kick.”
“Oh, great Saint Peter, since you have been so kind, and looking costs
nothing, I beg you let me just peep into the Paradise which they say is so
beautiful.”
“I will consider it—presently, ugly Huguenot that thou art!”
“Now come, Saint Peter, just remember that down there at Tarascon my
father, who is a fisherman, carries your banner in the procession, and with
bare feet——”
“All right,” said the saint, “for your father’s sake I will allow it, but see
here, scum of the earth, it is understood that you only put the end of your
nose inside.”
“That is enough.”
Then the celestial porter half opening the door said to Jarjaye:
“There—look.”
But he, suddenly turning his back, stepped into Paradise backwards.
“What are you doing?” asked Saint Peter.
“The great light dazzles me,” replied the Tarasconais, “I must go in
backwards. But, as you ordered, when I have put in my nose, be easy, I will
go no further.”
Now, thought he, delighted, I have got my nose in the hay.
The Tarasconais was in Paradise.
“Oh,” said he, “how happy one feels! how beautiful it is! What music!”
After a moment the doorkeeper said:
 “When you have gaped enough, you will go out, for I have no more time
to waste.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Jarjaye. “If you have anything to do, go about
your business. I will go out when I will go out. I am not the least in a
hurry.”
“But that was not our agreement!”
“My goodness, holy man, you seem very distressed! It would be
different if there were not plenty of room. But thank God, there is no
squash!”
“But I ask you to go, for if the good God were to pass by——”
“Oh! you arrange that as you can. I have always heard, that he who finds
himself well off, had better stay. I am here—so I stay.”
Saint Peter frowned and stamped. He went to find St. Yves.
“Yves,” he said, “You are a barrister—you must give me an opinion.”
“Two if you like,” replied Saint Yves.
“I am in a nice fix! This is my dilemma,” and he related all. “Now what
ought I to do?”
“You require,” said Saint Yves, “a good solicitor, and must then cite by
bailiff the said Jarjaye to appear before God.”
They went to look for a good solicitor, but no one had ever seen such a
person in Paradise. They asked for a bailiff—still more impossible to find.
Saint Peter was at his wits’ end.
Just then Saint Luke passed by.
“Peter, you look very melancholy! Has our Lord been giving you another
rebuke?”
“Oh, my dear fellow, don’t talk of it—I am in the devil of a fix, do you
see. A certain Jarjaye has got into Paradise by a trick, and I don’t know how
to get him out.”
“Where does he come from, this Jarjaye?”
“From Tarascon.”
“A Tarasconais?” cried Saint Luke. “Oh! what an innocent you are!
There is nothing, nothing easier than to make him go out. Being, as you
know, a friend of cattle, the patron of cattle-drovers, I am often in the
Camargue, Arles, Beaucaire, Nîmes, Tarascon, and I know that people. I
have studied their peculiarities, and how to manage them. Come—you shall
see.”
At that moment there went by a flight of cherubs.
“Little ones!” called Saint Luke, “here, here!”
The cherubs descended.
“Go quietly outside Paradise—and when you get in front of the door, run
past crying out: ‘The oxen—the oxen!’ ”
So the cherubs went outside Paradise and when they were in front of the
door they rushed past crying, “Oxen, oxen! Oh see, see the cattle-drover!”
Jarjaye turned round, amazed.
“Thunder! What, do they drive cattle here? I am off!” he cried.
He rushed to the door like a whirlwind and, poor idiot, went out of
Paradise.
Saint Peter quickly closed the door and locked it, then putting his head
out of the grating:
“Well, Jarjaye,” he called jeeringly, “how do you find yourself now?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” replied Jarjaye. “If they had really been cattle I
should not have regretted my place in Paradise!”
And so saying he plunged, head foremost, into the abyss.
(Almanach Provençal, 1864.)
THE FROG OF NARBONNE
I
Young Pignolet, journeyman carpenter, nicknamed the “Flower of
Grasse,” one afternoon in the month of June returned in high spirits from
making his tour of France. The heat was overpowering. In his hand he
carried his stick furbished with ribbons, and in a packet on his back his
implements (chisels, plane, mallet) folded in his working-apron. Pignolet
climbed the wide road of Grasse by which he had descended when he
departed some three or four years before. On his way, according to the
custom of the Companions of the Guild of Duty, he stopped at “Sainte-
Baume” the tomb of Master Jacques, founder of the Association. After
inscribing his surname on a rock, he descended to Saint-Maximin, to pay
his respects and take his colours from Master Fabre, he who inaugurates the
Sons of Duty. Then, proud as Cæsar, his kerchief on his neck, his hat smart
with a bunch of many-coloured ribbons, and hanging from his ears two little
compasses in silver, he valiantly strode on through a cloud of dust, which
powdered him from head to foot.
What a heat! Now and again he looked at the fig-trees to see if there was
any fruit, but they were not yet ripe. The lizards gaped in the scorched
grass, and the foolish grasshopper, on the dusty olives, the bushes and long
grass, sang madly in the blazing sun.
“By all the Saints, what heat!” Pignolet ejaculated at intervals. Having
some hours previously drank the last drop from his gourd, he panted with
thirst, and his shirt was soaking. “But forwards!” he said. “Soon we will be
at Grasse. Oh heavens, what a blessing! what a joy to embrace my father,
my mother, and to drink from a jug of water of the spring of Grasse! Then
to tell of my tour through France and to kiss Mïon on her fresh cheeks, and,
soon as the feast of the Madeleine arrives to marry her, and never leave
home any more. Onward, Pignolet—only another little step!”
At last he is at the entrance to Grasse, and in four strides at his father’s
workshop.
II
“My boy! Oh, my fine boy,” cried the old Pignol, leaving his work,
“welcome home. Marguerite! the youngster is here! Run, draw some wine,
prepare a meal, lay the cloth. Oh! the blessing to see thee home again! How
art thou?”
“Not so bad, God be thanked. And all of you, at home, father, are you
thriving?”
“Oh! like the poor old things we are ... but hasn’t he grown tall, the
youngster!” And all the world embraced him, father, mother, neighbours,
friends, and the girls! They took his packet from him and the children
fingered admiringly the fine ribbons on his hat and walking-stick. The old
Marguerite, with brimming eyes, quickly lighted the stove with a handful of
chips, and while she floured some dried haddock wherewith to regale the
young man, the old man sat down at a table with his son, and they drank to
his happy return, clinking glasses.
“Now here,” began old Master Pignol, “in less than four years thou hast
finished thy tour of France and behold thee, according to thy account,
passed and received as Companion of the Guild of Duty! How everything
changes! In my time it required seven years, yes, seven good years, to
achieve that honour. It is true, my son, that there in the shop I gave thee a
pretty good training, and that for an apprentice, already thou didst not
handle badly the plane and the jointer. But any way, the chief thing is thou
shouldst know thy business, and thou hast, so at least I believe, now seen
and known all that a fine fellow should know, who is son of a master.”
“Oh father, as for that,” replied the young man, “without boasting, I
think nobody in the carpenter’s shop could baffle me.”
“Very well,” said the old man, “see here while the cod-fish is singing in
the pot, just relate to me what were the finest objects thou didst note in
running round the country?”
III
“To begin with, father, you know that on first leaving Grasse, I went
over to Toulon where I entered the Arsenal. It’s not necessary to tell you all
that is inside there, you have seen it as well as I.”
“Yes, pass on, I know it.”
“After leaving Toulon I went and hired myself out at Marseilles, a fine
large town, advantageous for the workman, where some comrades pointed
out to me, a sea-horse which serves as a sign at an inn.”
“Well?”
“Faith, from there, I went north to Aix, where I admired the sculptures of
the porch of Saint-Saviour.”
“I have seen that.”
“Then, from there, we went to Arles, and we saw the roof of the
Commune of Arles.”
“So well constructed that one cannot imagine how it holds itself in the
air.”
“From Arles, my father, we went to the city of Saint-Gille, and there we
saw the famous Vis——”
“Yes, yes, a wonder both in structure and outline. Which shows us, my
son, that in other days as well as to-day there were good workmen.”
“Then we directed our steps from Saint-Gille to Montpellier, and there
they showed us the celebrated Shell....”
 “Oh yes—which is in the Vignolle, and the book calls it the ‘horn of
Montpellier.’ ”
“That’s it; and from there we marched to Narbonne.”
“Ah! that is what I was waiting for!”
“But why, my father? At Narbonne I saw the ‘Three Nurses,’ and then
the Archbishop’s palace, also the wood carvings in the church of Saint-
Paul.”
“And then?”
“My father, the song says nothing more than:
“ ‘Carcassone and Narbonne are two very good towns, to take on the
way to Bezièrs; Pézénas is quite nice; but the prettiest girls are at
Montpellier.’ ”
“Why bungler! Didst thou not see the Frog?”
“But what frog?”
“The Frog which is at the bottom of the font of the church of Saint Paul.
Ah! I am no longer surprised that thou hast finished so quickly thy tour of
France, booby! The frog at Narbonne! the masterpiece which men go to see
from all the ends of the earth! And this idiot,” cried the old Pignol getting
more and more excited, “this wicked waster, who gives himself out as
‘companion,’ has not even seen the Frog at Narbonne! Oh! that a son of a
master should have to hang his head for shame in his father’s house. No, my
son, never shall that be said. Now eat, drink, and go to thy bed, but to-
morrow morning, if thou wilt be on good terms with me, return to Narbonne
and see the Frog!”
IV
Poor Pignolet knew that his father was not one to retract and that he was
not joking. So he ate, drank, went to bed, and the next morning, at dawn,
without further talk, having stocked his knapsack with food, he started off
to Narbonne.
With his feet bruised and swollen, exhausted by heat and thirst, along the
dusty roads and highway tramped poor Pignolet.
At the end of seven or eight days he arrived at the town of Narbonne,
from whence, according to the proverb, “comes no good wind and no good
person.” Pignolet—he was not singing this time, let it be understood—
without taking the time to eat a mouthful or drink a drop at the inn, at once
walked off to the church of Saint-Paul and straight to the font to look at the
Frog.
And truly there in the marble vase, beneath the clear water, squatted a
frog with reddish spots, so well sculptured that he seemed alive, looking up,
with a bantering expression in his two yellow eyes at poor Pignolet, come
all the way from Grasse on purpose to see him.
“Ah, little wretch!” cried the carpenter in sudden wrath. “Thou hast
caused me to tramp four hundred miles beneath that burning sun! Take that
and remember henceforth Pignolet of Grasse!”
And therewith the bully draws from his knapsack a mallet and chisel.
Bang!—at a stroke he takes off one of the frog’s legs! They say that the
holy water became suddenly red as though stained with blood, and that the
inside of the font, since then, has remained reddened.
(Almanach Provençal, 1890.)
THE YOUNG MONTELAISE
Once upon a time there lived at Monteux, the village of the good Saint-
Gent and of Nicolas Saboly, a girl fair and fine as gold. They called her
Rose. She was the daughter of an innkeeper. And as she was good and sang
like an angel, the curé of Monteux placed her at the head of the choristers of
his church.
It happened one year that, for the feast of the patron Saint of Monteux,
the father of Rose engaged a solo singer.
This singer, who was young, fell in love with the fair Rose, and faith, she
fell in love with him. Then, one fine day, these two children, without much
ado, were married, and the little Rose became Madame Bordas. Good-bye
to Monteux! They went away together. Ah! how delightful it was, free as
the air and young as the bubbling spring of water, to live without a care, in
the full tide of love, and sing for a living.
The beautiful fête where Rose first sang was that of Sainte-Agathe, the
patroness of Maillane.
It was at the Café de la Paix (now Café du Soleil), and the room was full
as an egg. Rose, not more frightened than a sparrow on a wayside willow,
stood straight up on the platform, with her fair hair, and pretty bare arms,
her husband at her feet accompanying her on the guitar. The place was thick
with smoke, for it was full of peasants, from Graveson, Saint-Rémy,
Eyrague, besides those of Maillane. But one heard not a word of rough
language. They only said:
“Isn’t she pretty! And such a fine style! She sings like an organ! and she
does not come from afar—only just from Monteux.”
It is true that Rose only gave them beautiful songs. She sang of her
native land, the flag, battles, liberty and glory, and with such passionate
fervour and enthusiasm it stirred all hearts. Then, when she had finished she
cried, “Long live Saint Gent!”
Applause followed enough to bring down the house. The girl descended
among the audience and smiling, made the collection. The sous rained into
the wooden bowl, and smiling and content as though she had a hundred
thousand francs, she poured the money into her husband’s guitar, saying to
him:
“Here—see—if this lasts, we shall soon be rich!”
II
When Madame Bordas had done all the fêtes of our neighbourhood, she
became ambitious to try the towns. There, as in the villages, the Montelaise
shone. She sang “la Pologne” with her flag in her hand, she put into it so
much soul, such emotion, that she made every one tremble with excitement.
At Avignon, at Cette, Toulouse and Bordeaux she was adored by the
people. At last she said:
“Now only Paris remains.”
So she went to Paris. Paris is the pinnacle to which all aspire. There as in
the provinces she soon became the idol of the people.
It was during the last days of the Empire; ‘the chestnut was commencing
to smoke,’ and Rose Bordas sang the Marseillaise. Never had a singer given
this song with such enthusiasm, such frenzy; to the workmen of the
barricades she represented an incarnation of joyous liberty, and Tony
Révillon, a Parisian poet of the day, wrote of her in glowing strains in the
newspaper.
III
Then, alas! came quickly, one on the heels of the other, war, defeat,
revolution, and siege, followed by the Commune and its devil’s train. The
foolish Montelaise, lost in it all as a bird in the tempest, intoxicated by the
smoke, the whirl, the favour of the populace, sang to them “Marianne” like
a little demon. She would have sung in the water—still better in the fire.
One day a riot surrounded her in the street and carried her off like a
straw to the palace of the Tuileries.
The reigning populace were giving a fête in the Imperial salon. Arms,
black with powder, seized “Marianne”—for Madame Bordas was Marianne
to them—and mounted her on the throne in the midst of red flags.
“Sing to us,” they cried, “the last song that shall echo round the walls of
this accursed palace.”
And the little Montelaise, with a red cap on her fair hair, sang—“La
Canaille.”
A formidable cry of “Long live the Republic!” followed the last refrain,
and a solitary voice, lost in the crowd, sang out in answer, “Vivo Sant
Gènt.”
Rose could not see for the tears which brimmed in her blue eyes and she
became pale as death.
“Open, give her air!” they cried, seeing that she was about to faint.
Ah no! poor Rose, it was not air she needed, it was Monteux, it was
Saint Gent in the mountains and the innocent joy of the fêtes of Provence.
The crowd, in the meanwhile, with its red flags went off shouting
through the open door.
Over Paris, louder and louder, thundered the cannonade, sinister noises
ran along the streets, prolonged fusillades were heard in the distance, the
smell of petroleum was overpowering, and before very long tongues of fire
mounted from the Tuileries up to the sky.
Poor little Montelaise! No one ever heard of her again.
(Almanach Provençal, 1873.)
THE POPULAR MAN
The Mayor of Gigognan invited me, last year, to his village festivity. We
had been for seven years comrades of the ink-horn at the school of Avignon,
but since then had never met.
“By the blessing of God,” he cried on seeing me, “thou art just the same,
lively as a blue-bottle, handsome as a new penny—straight as an arrow—I
would have known thee in a thousand.”
 “Yes, I am just the same,” I replied, “only my sight is a little shorter, my
temples a little wrinkled, my hair a little whitened, and—when there is
snow on the hills, the valleys are seldom hot.”
“Bah!” said he, “my dear boy, the old bull runs on a straight track, only
he who desires it grows old. Come, come to dinner.”
According to time-honoured custom a village fête in Provence is the
occasion for real feasting, and my friend Lassagne had not failed to prepare
such a lordly feast as one might set before a king. Dressed lobster, fresh
trout from the Sorgue, nothing but fine meats and choice wines, a little glass
to whet the appetite at intervals, besides liqueurs of all sorts, and to wait on
us at table a young girl of twenty who—I will say no more!
We had arrived at the dessert, when all at once we heard in the street the
cheering buzz of the tambourine. The youth of the place had come,
according to custom, to serenade the mayor.
“Open the door, Françonnette,” cried the worthy man. “Go fetch the
hearth-cakes and come, rinse out the glasses.”
 Mistral and his dog Pan-Perdu.

In the meanwhile the musicians banged away at their tambourines. When

they had finished, the leaders of the party with flowers in their buttonholes
entered the room together with the town-clerk proudly carrying high on a
pole the prizes prepared for the games, and followed by the dancers of the
farandole and a crowd of girls.
The glasses were filled with the good wine of Alicante. All the cavaliers,
each one in his turn, cut a slice of cake, and clicked glasses all round to the
health of his Worship the Mayor. Then his Worship the Mayor, when all had
drunk and joked for a while, addressed them thus:
“My children, dance as much as you like, amuse yourselves as much as
you can, and be courteous to all strangers. You have my permission to do
anything you like, except fight or throw stones.”
“Long live Monsieur Lassagne!” cried the young people. They went off
and the farandole commenced. When we were alone again I inquired of my
friend:
“How long is it that thou hast been Mayor of Gigognan?”
“Fifty years, my dear fellow.”
“Seriously? Fifty years?”
“Yes, yes, it is fifty years. I have seen eleven governments, my boy, and I
do not intend to die, if the good God helps me, until I have buried another
half-dozen.”
“But how hast thou managed to keep thy sash[12] amidst so much
confusion and revolution?”
“Eh! my good friend, there is the asses’ bridge. The people, the honest
folk, require to be led. But in order to lead them it is necessary to have the
right method. Some say drive with the rein tight. Others, drive with the rein
loose; but I—do you know what I say?—take them along gaily.”
“Look at the shepherds; the good shepherds are not those who have
always a raised stick; neither are they those that lie down beneath a willow
and sleep in the corner of the field. The good shepherd is he who walks
quietly ahead of his flock and plays the pipes. The beasts who feel
themselves free, and who are really so, browse with appetite on the pasture
and the thistle. When they are satisfied and the hour comes to return home,
the shepherd pipes the retreat and the contented flock follow him to the
sheepfold. My friend, I do the same, I play on the pipes, and my flock
follow.”
“Thou playest on the pipes; that is all very well.... But still, among thy
flock thou hast some Whites, and some Reds, some headstrong and some
queer ones, as there are everywhere! Now, when an election for a deputy
takes place, for example, how dost thou manage?”
“How I manage? Eh, my good soul. I leave it alone. For to say to the
Whites, ‘Vote for the Republic,’ would be to lose one’s breath and one’s
Latin, and to say to the Reds, ‘Vote for Henri V.,’ would be as effectual as to
spit on that wall.”
“But the undecided ones, those who have no opinion, the poor innocents,
all the good people who tack cautiously as the wind blows?”
 “Ah, those there, when sometimes in the barber’s shop they ask me my
advice, ‘Hold,’ I say to them, ‘Bassaquin is no better than Bassacan.’
Whether you vote for Bassaquin or Bassacan this summer you will have
fleas. For Gigognan it is better to have a good rain than all the promises of
the candidates. Ah! it would be a different matter if you nominated one of
the peasant class. But so long as you do not nominate peasants for deputies,
as they do in Sweden and Denmark, you will not be represented. The
lawyers, doctors, journalists, small shopkeepers of all sorts whom you
return, ask but one thing: to stay in Paris as much as possible, raking in all
they can, and milking the poor cow without troubling their heads about our
Gigognan! But if, as I say, you delegated the peasants, they would think of
saving, they would diminish the big salaries, they would never make war,
they would increase the canals, they would abolish the duties, and hasten to
settle affairs in order to return before the harvest. Just imagine that there are
in France twenty million tillers of the soil, and they have not the sense to
send three hundred of them to represent the land! What would they risk by
trying it? It would be difficult for the peasants’ deputy to do worse than
these others!”
And every one replies: “Ah! that Monsieur Lassagne! though he is
joking, there is some sense in what he says.”
“But,” I said, “as to thee personally, thee Lassagne, how hast thou
managed to keep thy popularity in Gigognan, and thy authority for fifty
years?”
“Oh, that is easy enough,” he laughed. “Come, let us leave the table, and
take a little turn. When we have made the tour of Gigognan two or three
times, thou wilt know as much as I do.”
We rose from the table, lit our cigars and went out to see the fun. In the
road outside a game of bowls was going on. One of the players in throwing
his ball unintentionally struck the mark, replacing it by his own ball, and
thus gaining two points.
“Clever rascal,” cried Monsieur Lassagne, “that is something like play.
My compliments, Jean-Claude! I have seen many a game of bowls but on
my life never a better shot!”
We passed on. After a little we met two young girls.
“Now look at that,” said Lassagne in a loud voice; “they are like two
queens. What a pretty figure, what a lovely face! And those earrings of the
last fashion! Those two are the flowers of Gigognan!”
The two girls turned their heads and smilingly greeted us. In crossing the
square, we passed near an old man seated in front of his door.
“Well now, Master Quintrand,” said Monsieur Lassagne, “shall we enter
the lists this year with the first or second class of wrestlers?”
“Ah! my poor sir, we shall wrestle with no one at all,” replied Master
Quintrand.
“Do you remember Master Quintrand, the year when Meissonier,
Guéquine, Rabasson, presented themselves on the meadow, the three best
wrestlers of Provence, and you threw them on their shoulders, all three of
them!”
“Eh, you don’t need to remind me,” said the old wrestler, lighting up. “It
was the year when they took the citadel of Antwerp. The prize was a
hundred crowns and a sheep for the second winner. The prefect of Avignon
shook me by the hand! The people of Bédarride were ready to fight with
those of Courtezon, on my account.... Ah! what a time, compared with the
present! Now their wrestling will.... Better not speak of it, for one no longer
sees men, not men, dear sir.... Besides, they have an understanding with
each other.”
We shook hands with the old man and continued our walk.
“Come now,” I said to Lassagne, “I begin to understand—it is done with
the soap ball!”
“I have not finished yet,” he made answer.
Just then the village priest came out of his presbytery.
“Good day, gentlemen!”
“Good day, Monsieur le Curé,” said Lassagne. “Ah, one moment, since
we have met I want to tell you: this morning at Mass, I noticed that our
church is becoming too small, especially on fête days. Do you think it
would be a mistake to attempt enlarging it?”
“On that point, Monsieur le Maire, I am of your opinion—it is true that
on feast days one can scarcely turn round.”
“Monsieur le Curé, I will see about it: at the first meeting of the
Municipal Council I will put the question, and if the prefecture will come to
our assistance——”
“Monsieur le Maire, I am delighted, and I can only thank you.”
 As we left the ramparts, we saw coming a flock of sheep taking up all
the road. Lassagne called to the shepherd.
“Just at the sound of thy bells, I said, ‘this must be Georges!’ And I was
not mistaken: what a pretty flock! what fine sheep! But how well you
manage to feed them! I am sure that, taking one with another, they are not
worth less than ten crowns each!”
“That is true certainly,” replied Georges. “I bought them at the Cold
Market this winter; nearly all had lambs, and they will give me a second lot
I do believe.”
“Not only a second lot, but such beasts as those could give you twins!”
“May God hear you! Monsieur Lassagne!”
We had hardly finished talking to the shepherd when we overtook an old
woman gathering chicory in the ditches.
“ ’Hold, it is thou, Bérengère,” said Lassagne, accosting her. “Now
really from behind with thy red kerchief I took thee for Téréson, the
daughter-in-law of Cacha, thou art exactly like her!”
“Me! Oh Monsieur Lassagne, but think of it! I am seventy years old!”
“Oh come, come, from behind if thou couldst see thyself, thou hast no
need of pity. I have seen worse baskets at the vintage!”
“This Monsieur Lassagne, he must always have his joke,” said the old
woman, shaking with laughter; and turning to me she added:
“Believe me, sir, it is not just a way of speaking, but this Monsieur
Lassagne is the cream of men. He is friendly with all. He will chat, see you,
with the smallest in the country even to the babies! That is why he has been
fifty years Mayor of Gigognan, and will be to the end of his days.”
“Well, my friend,” said Lassagne to me, “It is not I, is it, that have said
it! All of us like nice things, we like compliments, and we are all gratified
by kind manners. Whether dealing with women, with kings, or with the
people, he who would reign must please. And that is the secret of the Mayor
of Gigognan.
(Almanach Provençal, 1883.)
 CHAPTER XIV

JOURNEY TO LES SAINTES-MARIES

All my life I had heard of the Camargue and of Les Saintes-Maries and the
pilgrimage to their shrine, but I had never as yet been there. In the spring of
the year 1855 I wrote to my friend Mathieu, ever ready for a little trip, and
proposed we should go together and visit the saints.
He agreed gladly, and we met at Beaucaire in the Condamine quarter,
from where a pilgrim party annually started on May 24 to the sea-coast
village of Les Saintes-Maries.
A little after midnight Mathieu and I set forth with a crowd of country
men and women, young girls and children, packed into waggons close as
sardines in a tin; we numbered fourteen in our conveyance.
Our worthy charioteer, one of those typical Provenceaux whom nothing
dismays, seated us on the shaft, our legs dangling. Half the time he walked
by the side of his horse, the whip round his neck, constantly relighting his
pipe. When he wanted a rest he sat on a small seat niched in between the
wheels, which the drivers call “carrier of the weary.”
Just behind me, enveloped in her woollen wrap and stretched on a
mattress by her mother’s side, her feet planted unconcernedly in my back,
was a young girl named Alarde. Not having, however, as yet made the
acquaintance of these near neighbours, Mathieu and I conversed with the
driver, who at once inquired from whence we hailed. On our replying from
Maillane, he remarked that he had already guessed by our speech that we
had not travelled far.
“The Maillane drivers,” he added, “ ‘upset on a flat plain’; you know
that saying?”
“Not all of them,” we laughed.
“ ’Tis but a jest,” he answered. “Why there was one I knew, a carter of
Maillane, who was equipped, I give you my word, like Saint George
himself—Ortolan, his name was.”
“Was that many years ago?” I asked.
 “Aye, sirs, I am speaking of the good old days of the wheel, before those
devourers with their railroads had come and ruined us all: the days when the
fair of Beaucaire was in its splendour, and the first barge which arrived for
the fair was awarded the finest sheep in the market, and the victorious
bargeman used to hang the sheep-skin as a trophy on the main-mast. Those
were the days in which the towing-horses were insufficient to tug up the
Rhône the piles of merchandise which were sold at the fair of Beaucaire,
and every man who drove a waggon, carriage, cart, or van was cracking his
whip along the high roads from Marseilles to Paris, and from Paris to Lille,
right away into Flanders. Ah, you are too young to remember that time.”
Once launched on his pet theme Lamoureux discoursed, as he tramped
along, till the light of the moon waned and gave place to dawn. Even then
the worthy charioteer would have continued his reminiscences had it not
been that, as the rays of the awakening sun lit up the wide stretches of the
great plains of the Camargue lying between the delta of the two Rhônes, we
arrived at the Bridge of Forks.
In our eyes, even a more beautiful sight than the rising sun (we were
both about five and twenty) was the awakening maiden who, as I have
mentioned already, had been packed in just behind us with her mother.
Shaking off the hood of her cloak, she emerged all smiling and fresh, like a
goddess of youth. A dark red ribbon caught up her blonde hair which
escaped from the white coif. With her delicate clear skin, curved lips half
opened in a rapt smile, she looked like a flower shaking off the morning
dew. We greeted her cordially, but Mademoiselle Alarde paid no attention to
us. Turning to her mother she inquired anxiously:
“Mother, say—are we still far from the great saints?”
“My daughter, we are still, I should say, eighteen or twenty miles
distant.”
“Will he be there, my betrothed?—say then—will he be there?” she
asked her mother.
“Oh hush, my darling,” answered the mother quickly.
“Ah, how slowly the time goes,” sighed the young girl. Then discovering
all at once that she was ravenously hungry, she suggested breakfast.
Spreading a linen cloth on her knees, she and her mother thereupon brought
out of a wicker basket a quantity of provisions—bread, sausage, dates, figs,
oranges—and, without further ceremony, set to work. We wished them
“good appetite,” whereupon the young girl very charmingly invited us to
join them, which we did on condition that we contributed the contents of
our knapsacks to the repast. Mathieu at once produced two bottles of good
Nerthe wine, which, having uncorked, we poured into a cup and handed
round to each of the party in turn, including the driver; so behold us a happy
family.
At the first halt Mathieu and I got down to stretch our legs. We inquired
of our friend Lamoureux who the young girl might be. He answered that
hers was a sad story. One of the prettiest girls in Beaucaire, she had been
jilted about three months ago by her betrothed, who had gone off to another
girl, rich, but ugly as sin. The effect of this had been to send Alarde almost
out of her mind; the beautiful girl was in fact not quite sane, declared
Lamoureux, though to look at her one would never guess it. The poor
mother, at her wits’ end to know what to do, was taking her child to Les
Saintes-Maries to see if that would divert her mind and perhaps cure her.
We expressed our astonishment that any man could be such a scoundrel
as to forsake a young girl so lovely and sweet-looking.
Arrived at the Jasses d’Albaron, we halted to let the horses have a feed
from their nose-bags. The young girls of Beaucaire who were with us took
this opportunity of surrounding Alarde, and singing a roundel in her honour:

Au branle de ma tante
Le rossignol y chante
Oh que de roses! Oh que de fleurs
Belle, belle Alarde tournez vous.

La belle s’est tournée,

Son beau l’a regardé:
Oh que de roses! Oh que de fleurs.
Belle, belle Alarde, embrassez vous.

But the result of this well-meant attention was very disastrous, for the poor
Alarde burst out into hysterical laughter, crying, “My lover, my lover,” as
though she were demented.
Soon after, however, we resumed our journey, for the sky, which since
dawn had been flecked with clouds, became every moment more
threatening. The wind blew straight from the sea, sweeping the black
masses of cloud towards us till all the blue sky was obliterated. The frogs
and toads croaked in the marshes, and our long procession of waggons
struggled slowly through the vast salt plains of the Camargue. The earth felt
the coming storm. Flights of wild ducks and teal passed with a warning cry
over our heads. The women looked anxiously at the black sky. “We shall be
in a nice plight if that storm takes us in the middle of the Camargue,” said
they.
“Well, you must put your skirts over your heads,” laughed Lamoureux.
“It is a known fact that such clouds bring rain.”
We passed a mounted bull-driver, his trident in his hand, collecting his
scattered beasts. “You’ll get wet,” he prophesied cheerfully.
A drizzle commenced; then larger drops announced that the water was
going to fall in good earnest. In no time the wide plain was converted into a
watery waste. Seated beneath the awning of the waggon, we saw in the
distance troops of the Camargue horses shaking their long manes and tails
as they started off briskly for the rising grounds and the sandbanks.
Down came the rain! The road, drowned in the deluge, became
impracticable. The wheels got clogged, the beasts were unable to drag us
further. Far as the eye could reach there was nothing to be seen but one vast
lake.
“All must get down!” cried the drivers unanimously. “Women and girls
too, if you do not wish to sleep beneath the tamarisk-bush.”
“Walk in the water?” cried some in dismay.
“Walk barefoot, my dears,” answered Lamoureux; “thus you will earn
the great pardon of which you all have need, for I know the sins of some of
you are weighing devilish heavy.”
Old and young, women and girls, all got down, and with laughter and
shrieks, every one began to prepare themselves for wading, taking off their
shoes and tucking up their clothes. The drivers took the children astride on
their shoulders, and Mathieu gallantly offered himself to the old lady in our
waggon, the mother of the pretty Alarde:
“If you mount on my back,” he said, “I will undertake to carry you
safely to the ‘Dead Goat.’ ” The old lady, who was so fat she walked with
difficulty even on dry ground, did not refuse such a noble offer.
“You, my Frédéric, can charge yourself with Alarde,” said Mathieu with
a wink to me, “and we will change from time to time to refresh ourselves,
eh?”
And forthwith we each took up our burden without further ceremony, an
example which was soon followed by all the young men in the other
waggons.
Mathieu and his old girl laughed like fools. As for myself, when I felt the
soft round arms of Alarde round my neck as she held the umbrella over our
heads, I own it to this day, I would not have given up that journey across the
Camargue in the rain and slush for a king’s ransom.
“Oh goodness, if my betrothed could see me now,” repeated Alarde at
intervals; “my betrothed, who no longer loves me—my boy, my handsome
boy!”
It was in vain that I tried to steal in with my little compliments and soft
speeches, she neither heard nor saw me—but I could feel her breath on my
neck and shoulder; I had only to turn my head a little and I could have
kissed her, her hair brushed against mine; the close proximity of this youth
and freshness bewitched me, and while she dreamt only of her lover, I, for
my part, tried to imagine myself a second Paul carrying my Virginia.
Just at the happiest moment of my illusion, Mathieu, gasping beneath the
weight of the fat mamma, cried out:
“Let us change for a bit! I can go no further, my dear fellow.”
At the trunk of a tamarisk, therefore, we halted and exchanged burdens,
Mathieu taking the daughter, while I, alas, had the mother. And thus for
over two miles, paddling in water up to our knees, we travelled, changing at
intervals and making light of fatigue because of the reward we both got out
of the romantic rôle of Paul!
At last the heavy rain began to abate, the sky to clear and the roads to
become visible. We remounted the waggons, and about four o’clock in the
afternoon, suddenly we saw rise out of the distant blue of sea and sky, with
its Roman belfry, russet merlons and buttresses, the church of Les Saintes-
Maries.
There was a general exclamation of joyful greeting to the great saints,
for this far-away shrine, standing isolated on the edge of the great plain, is
the Mecca of all the Gulf of Lyons. What impresses one most is the
harmonious grandeur of the vast sweep of land and sea, arched over by the
limitless dome of sky, which, more perfectly here than anywhere else,
appears to embrace the entire terrestrial horizon.
 Lamoureux turned to us saying: “We shall just arrive in time to perform
the office of lowering the shrines; for, gentlemen, you must know that it is
we of Beaucaire to whom is reserved the right before all others of turning
the crane by which the relics of the saints are lowered.”
The sacred remains of Mary, mother of James the Less, Mary Salome,
mother of James and John, and of Sarah, their servant, are kept in a small
chapel high up just under the dome. From this elevated position, by means
of an aperture which gives on to the church, the shrines are slowly lowered
by a rope over the heads of the worshipping crowd.
So soon as we had unharnessed, which we did on the sandbanks covered
with tamarisk and orach by which the village is surrounded, we made our
way quickly to the church.
“Light them up well, the dear blessed saints,” cried a group of
Montpellier women selling candles and tapers, medals and images at the
church door.
The church was crammed with people of all kinds, from Languedoc,
from Arles, the maimed and the halt, together with a crowd of gypsies, all
one on the top of the other. The gypsies buy bigger candles than anybody
else, but devote their attention exclusively to Saint Sarah, who, according to
their belief, was one of their nation. It is here at Les Saintes-Maries that
these wandering tribes hold their annual assemblies, and from time to time
elect their queen.
It was difficult to get in at the church. A group of market women from
Nîmes, muffled up in black and dragging after them their twill cushions
whereon to sleep all night in the church, were quarrelling for the chairs. “I
had this before you.”—“No, but I hired it,” &c. A priest was passing “The
Sacred Arm” from one to the other to be kissed; to the sick people they
were giving glasses of briny water drawn from the saints’ well in the middle
of the nave, and which on that day they say becomes sweet. Some, by way
of a remedy, were scraping the dust off an ancient marble block fixed in the
wall, and reported to be the “saints’ pillow.” A smell of burning tapers,
incense, heat and stuffiness suffocated one, while one’s ears were deafened
by each group singing their own particular canticles at the pitch of their
voices.
Then in the air, slowly the shrines begin to descend, and the crowd
bursts into shouts and cries of “O great Saint Marys!” And as the cord
unrolls, screams and contortions increase, arms are raised, faces upturned,
every one awaits a miracle. Suddenly, from the end of the church, rushing
across the nave, as though she had wings, a beautiful girl, her fair hair
falling about her, flung herself towards the floating shrines, crying: “O great
saints—in pity give me back the love of my betrothed.”
All rose to their feet. “It is Alarde!” exclaimed the people from
Beaucaire, while the rest murmured awestruck, “It is Saint Mary Magdalen
come to visit her sisters.” Every one wept with emotion.
The following day took place the procession on the sea-shore to the soft
murmur and splash of the breaking waves. In the distance, on the high seas,
two or three ships tacked about as though coming in, while all along the
coast extended the long procession, ever seeming to lengthen out with the
moving line of the waves.
It was just here, says the legend,[13] that the three Saint Marys in their
skiff were cast ashore in Provence after the death of Our Lord. And looking
out over the wide glistening sea, that lies in the midst of such visions and
memories, illuminated by the radiant sunshine, it seemed to us in truth we
were on the threshold of Paradise.
Our little friend Alarde, looking rather pale after the emotions of the
previous day, was one of a group of maidens chosen to bear on their
shoulders the “Boat of the Saints,” and many murmurs of sympathy
followed her as she passed. This was the last we saw of her, for, so soon as
the saints had reascended to their chapel, we took the omnibus for Aigues-
Mortes, together with a crowd of people returning to Montpellier and
Lundy, who beguiled the way by singing in chorus hymns to the Saints of
the Sea.
STANZAS FROM “MIREILLE”[14]
The sisters and the brothers, we
Who followed him ever constantly,
To the raging sea were cruelly driven
In a crazy ship without a sail,
Without an oar, ’mid the angry gale;
We women could only weep and wail—
The men uplifted their eyes to Heaven!

A gust tempestuous drives the ship

O’er fearsome waves, in the wild storm’s grip;
Martial and Saturninus, lowly
In prayer kneel yonder on the prow;
Old Trophimus with thoughtful brow
Sits closely wrapped in his mantle now
By Maximus, the Bishop holy.

There on the deck, amid the gloom,

Stands Lazarus, of shroud and tomb
Always the mortal pallor keeping;
His glance the raging gulf defies;
And with the doomed ship onward flies
Martha his sister; there, too, lies
Magdalen, o’er her sorrows weeping.

Upon a smooth and rockless strand

Alleluiah! our ship doth land.
Prostrate we fall on the wet sand, crying:
“Our lives, that He from storm did save,
Here are they ready, Death to brave,
And preach the law that once He gave,
O Christ, we swear it, even dying!”

At that glad name, most glorious still,

Noble Provence seemed all a-thrill;
Forest and moor throughout their being
Were stirred and answered that new cry;
As when a dog, his master nigh,
Goes out to meet him joyfully,
And welcome gives, the master seeing.

The sea some shells to shore had cast ...

Thou gav’st a feast to our long fast—
Our Father, Thou who art in Heaven;
A df hi f i l
 And for our thirst, a fountain clear
Rose limpid ’mid the sea-plants here;
And, marvellous, still rises near
The church where we were burial given.
(Trans. Alma Strettell.)
 CHAPTER XV

JEAN ROUSSIÈRE

“Good morning, Mr. Frédéric. They tell me that you have need of a man on
the farm.”
“Yes—from whence comest thou?”
“From Villeneuve, the country of the ‘lizards’—near to Avignon.”
“And what canst thou do?”
“A little of everything. I have been helper at the oil mills, muleteer,
carrier, labourer, miller, shearer, mower if necessary, wrestler on occasions,
pruner of poplars, a high-class trade, and even cleaner of sewers, which is
the lowest of all!”
“And they call thee?”
“Jean Roussière, and Rousseyron—and Seyron for short.”
“How much do you ask?—it is for taking care of the beasts.”
“About fifteen louis.”
“I will give thee a hundred crowns.”
“All right for a hundred crowns.”
That is how I engaged Jean Roussière, he who taught me the old folk-
melody of “Magali”—a jovial fellow and made on the lines of a Hercules.
The last year that I lived at the farm, with my blind father, in the long
watches of our solitude Jean Roussière never failed to keep me interested
and amused, good fellow that he was. At his work he was excellent and
always enlivened his beasts by some cheering song.
Naturally artistic in all he did, even if it was heaping a rick of straw or a
pile of manure, or stowing away a cargo, he knew how to give the
harmonious line or, as they say, the graceful sweep. But he had the defects
of his qualities and was rather too fond of taking life in an easy and
leisurely fashion, even passing part of it in an afternoon nap.
A charming talker at all times, it was worth hearing him as he spoke of
the days when he led the big teams of horses on the towing-path, tugging
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