So descending the bank I twisted around my hand a reed that grew there, and leaning over the water very prudently, tried once again to reach the iris blooms with the other hand. But misery! the reed broke and played me false--into the middle of the stream I plunged head foremost. I righted myself as best I could and shrieked like a lost one. Every one came running. “There’s the little imp, in the water again! This time, you incorrigible youngster, your mother will give you the whipping you deserve.” But she did not. Down the pathway I saw her coming, the poor mother, and tears were in her eyes. “O Lord,” she cried, “but I won’t whip him; he might have a fit--this boy is not like others. By all the saints he does nothing but run after flowers; he loses all his toys scrambling in the cornfields after nosegays. Now, as a climax, he has thrown himself three times within an hour into this moat! I can only clean him up, and thank heaven he is not drowned.” We mingled our tears together as we went home, then once indoors, saint that she was, my mother again unclothed and dried me, and to ward off all evil consequences administered a dose of vermifuge before putting me to bed, where worn out with emotion I soon fell asleep. Can any one guess of what I dreamt? Why, of my iris flowers!... In a lovely stream of water which wound all round the farm-house, a limpid, transparent, azure stream like the waters of the fountain at Vaucluse, I beheld the most beautiful clumps of iris covered with a perfect wonder of golden blossoms! Little dragon-flies with blue silk wings came and settled on the flowers, while I swam about naked in the laughing rivulet and plucked by handfuls and armfuls those enchanting yellow blooms. And the more I picked the more sprang up. All at once I heard a voice calling to me, “Frédéric!” I awoke, and to my joy I saw--a great bunch of golden iris all shining by my side. The Master himself, my worshipful sire, had actually gone to pick those flowers I so longed for; and the Mistress, my dear sweet mother, had placed them on my bed. CHAPTER II MY FATHER My early years were passed at the farm in the company of labourers, reapers and shepherds. When occasionally a townsman visited our farm, one of those who affected to speak only French, it puzzled me sorely and even disconcerted me to see my parents all at once take on a respectful manner to the stranger, as though they felt him to be their superior. I was perplexed, too, at hearing another tongue. “Why is it,” I asked, “that man does not speak like we do?” “Because he is a gentleman,” I was told. “Then I will never be a gentleman,” I replied resentfully.