In none of the excursions do we see the pasturing of sheep, such as we are accustomed to at home. There is a general absence of animal life. The scenery communicates the feeling of perfect repose. In the recesses of the valleys, there is a sort of supernatural stillness. You are environed by trees, rocks, and hill-terraces, with châlets far up on which the sun is shining; but not a leaf is stirring, although at that moment, perhaps, there is a breeze on the sea-shore. I never quite understood what was done for supplies of mutton for market. The only sheep visible consisted of a single flock, under the charge of an old man and boy, dressed in antiquated costume. Standing high on their legs, the sheep had remarkable Roman noses, and long pendent ears like hounds. So thin, so lank were they, that a Scottish store-farmer would have looked on them with contempt. It was my impression they were half-starved. Every afternoon about sunset, they might be seen conducted into town for the night. They came down the dry rubbishy torrent of the Carei among the washerwomen at their dirty frothy pools, eagerly catching at every blade of grass that happened to be growing among the stones, eating, as a windfall, any bit of orange-peeling that happened to lie in their way. Then, getting out of the Carei to the sea-beach, they had a leisurely walk along the shingle, where possibly a stray turnip-top or decayed potato rewarded their explorations. Next morning, after being housed somewhere, they were out again for the day, and might have been observed grubbing in the by-ways, and on odd pieces of waste ground, where a mouthful of green food could be picked up. Such is all I can say about the feeding of sheep in this pleasant Arcadia. As for cows, they are not seen at all, but are kept within doors, where they are fed on the waste pulp of oranges, lemons, and citrons, the rinds of which fruits are for the most part manufactured as confections. Milk good, nevertheless, which I thought strange. [Illustration: Pont St Louis.]