“It certainly was a spectacle well worth seeing, this continuous flow of clear water over a bed of golden sand, dotted here and there with flexible green plants, which, swaying with every movement of the tide make such charming little retreats for the fish. The minnows and gudgeon glided like shadows between the few large stones which took the place of reefs on this miniature coast. Their goings and comings amused me very much, and I made up my mind that some day one could apply to me as to them the proverb, ‘Happy as a fish in the water.’ All this would have been perfect, if little by little I had not approached the spot where, under the boughs and between the roots of an enormous willow, my uncle had anchored the famous St. Jacques. Desiring not to disobey my father. I had made up my mind not to look at the St. Jacques, not to take a step towards it; this was prudent, but it was ordained that I should break my word that day. Reasons for doing so were not lacking: first—the portion of the walk by the water where I intended to stay being in the hot sun, I had not seen a single frog; the hot herbage did not suit them. “To take my swimming lesson it was necessary to go to the side where the boat was moored. Only under the willows, and in the damp grass which surrounded the Bay St. Jacques, could I hope to find them. Second—as my father was anxious that I should study how frogs swam, I had made a mistake in keeping away from the only place where I stood some chance of finding them. I knew well that there alone could they always be seen. Besides, going _near_ the St. Jacques was not the same thing as going _on_ the St. Jacques. Third—it is not difficult to refrain from getting into a boat, even when one has a great desire to do so. So I pushed aside the long branches of the great willow which hung down to the ground, and found myself in the presence of the St. Jacques. What a beautiful boat she was! Since I had last seen her my uncle had had her repainted. Her new costume of mingled red and white suited her marvelously; her mast,—there was a mast,—painted also, was even more beautiful than one of those lovely paper wind-mills that one’s parents never buy one. Her pennant had also been renewed. It was certainly for my father’s return that uncle Antoine had gone to the expense of this brilliant _toilette_. The hull hardly stirred. Its imperceptible balancings on the water resembled the quiet breathing of a sleeping person. Under the transparent veil of the drooping branches of the weeping willow, no breath could reach it. The St. Jacques had the air of a little potentate in repose, under a canopy of verdure. If papa had not forbidden me to get in the little boat, it would have been delightful to read my ‘Swiss Family Robinson’ out upon the water. Sitting in the bow, leaning against the mast, one might imagine one’s self on an island. But then, that which is forbidden one can not prevent from being forbidden.”