The rabbits hopping under the leaves, the covey of partridges bathing amidst the dew, the hares gravely discussing among themselves the respective merits of the heath and wild thyme, are thus surprised in their matutinal occupations, and become the prey of the delighted sportsman. But the moment approaches when the comparative calm and protection which the poor animals enjoy will cease--their days of fun and festival are numbered; their enemies up to this period have been few--the rich proprietors, the privileged, but now the masses are preparing, they are cleaning up their clumsy blunderbusses, and to-morrow "the million" will take the field and assail and pop at them from every road and pathway--for the mayor, after due consultation with the principal personages in the village, has sent his drummer, his Mercury, his crier, to beat a tattoo in all the public places, and crossways, and announce in front of the _cabarets_ that the grapes being ripe the _vendange_ is opened. The following day, when the last star in the heavens is disappearing, when the doors of morning are scarcely opened, every road is covered with long lines of waggons drawn by oxen, and a cavalcade of horses and mules, and great asses carrying panniers may be seen galloping along in all directions. Voices, shouts, squeaking wheels, and neighing horses are also heard on every side, and parties of _vendangeurs_ and _vendangeuses_, arm in arm, with baskets on their backs, and grape knives in their belts, their broad-brimmed hats encircled with ribbons and flowers, are seen marching along, singing many a Bacchanalian chorus in honour of the occasion. They are on their way to the vineyards, and like so many fauns and Bacchantes, only well draped, are with joyous hearts ready to gather in the harvest of the ruby grape. In advance of this delighted and merry crowd, and always like the lark, the first on the wing, the sportsman is already at his post,--for the first day of the _vendange_ is, as Navarre used to say, a day of powder, the _fête du fusil_. And now is formed a line of sometimes three hundred _vendangeurs_ and _vendangeuses_ who starting at the same moment, ascend the hill-side cutting the grapes, filling and emptying their baskets. The young men strike up some jovial song in praise of wine, the girls reply; and before this soul-stirring chorus, this burst of gay and animated feeling, the game, astounded at the concert, break and retire before them. Then is the moment for the sportsman, who, concealed in a large thicket and comfortably seated at the summit of the hill, listens and laughs in his sleeve as he hears the affrighted partridge call, and the timid hare rushing through the vines towards him; they approach, are within range of his gun, and ere long the shot-bag is emptied, and the sportsman is in that rare but agreeable dilemma of not knowing what to do with his game or his gun.