How it interests e'en a beginner (Or _tiro_) like dear little Ned! Is he listening? As I am a sinner, He's asleep--he is wagging his head. Wake up! I'll go home to my dinner, And you to your bed. The boundless ineffable prairie; The splendour of mountain and lake, With their hues that seem ever to vary; The mighty pine-forests which shake In the wind, and in which the unwary May tread on a snake; And this wold, with its heathery garment, Are themes undeniably great. But--although there is not any harm in't-- It's perhaps little good to dilate On their charms to a dull little varmint Of seven or eight. TARTARIN DE TARASCON [Sidenote: _Daudet_] At the time of which I am speaking, Tartarin of Tarascon was not the Tartarin that he is to-day, the great Tartarin of Tarascon, so popular throughout the South of France. However--even then--he was already king of Tarascon. Let me tell you whence this kingship. You must know, first, that every one there is a huntsman, from the greatest to the smallest. So, every Sunday morning, Tarascon takes arms and leaves the walls, game-bag on the back, gun on the shoulder, with a commotion of dogs, ferrets, trumpets, and hunting-horns. It is a superb sight. Unfortunately, game is wanting, absolutely wanting. However stupid animals may be, in the end they had become wary. For five leagues round Tarascon warrens are empty, nests deserted. Not a thrush, not a quail, not the least little rabbit, not the smallest leveret. And yet these pretty Tarascon hillocks are very tempting, perfumed with myrtle, lavender, and rosemary; and these fine muscat grapes, swollen with sweetness, which grow by the side of the Rhone, extremely appetising too--yes, but there is Tarascon behind, and in the little world of fur and feather Tarascon has an evil fame. The birds of passage themselves have marked it with a big cross on their maps of the route, and when the wild-ducks, descending towards Camargue in long triangles, see the steeples of the town in the distance, the leader screams at the top of his lungs, "There is Tarascon!--There is Tarascon!" and the whole flight turns. In short, as far as game is concerned, only one old rogue of a hare remains, who has escaped by some miracle from the September massacres of the Tarasconners, and who insists on living there. In Tarascon this hare is well known. They have given him a name. He is called "The Express." It is known that his form is in M. Bompard's ground--which, by the way, has doubled and even trebled its price--but so far no one has been able to get at it. At the present moment there are one or two desperate fellows who have set their hearts upon him. The others have made up their minds that it is hopeless, and "The Express" has become a sort of local superstition, although the Tarasconners are not very superstitious and eat swallows in a salmi when they can get them.