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?”