That soft rippling noise that you hear is made by a fountain of running water. These fountains are numerous in the villages and by the road-side, and the water is cold and sparkling, though not always pure. It is not wise to drink water in a land where the art of proper drainage is unknown. Many of the fountains were originally made by the Moors, and the people have had the sense to preserve them for their own use. The louder noise that is now making itself heard comes from a peasant who is singing. The Corsicans are said to be fond of music, but their singing is atrocious. They shriek in a high falsetto voice, beginning on a very high note and ending on a low one, and they make up in volume what they lack in sweetness. The music sounds strange to those not acquainted with the bagpipes, or with the instruments and voices of the Far East. The same music sung by a cultured voice has a certain charm of its own, though too much of it is apt to prove monotonous. If you are so unfortunate as to be shut up for half an hour in a railway carriage with a peasant who likes the sound of his own voice, you will probably be rewarded with a splitting headache. And so it goes on all day--streams of mules and sheep, peasants and goats, women carrying wood and water, men smoking and singing, and women knitting. Everyone greets the passer-by with a polite salute, wishing him “Good-morning” or “Good-evening,” as the case may be. At the entrance to a village, or at places where the road divides, a huge wooden cross is erected. This bears wooden models of a hammer, pincers, spear, and nails, and is meant to remind the traveller of Him who died for all the world so many years ago. But neither men nor women seem to take much notice of this memorial of the Christ, and, once it has been erected, it is allowed to go gradually to ruin. CHAPTER XV ANIMALS