intends to try his chance. While the runners are being divided into batches, sabots thrown off, and all preparations being made, that little urchin of three, who is under a vow to wear blue and white only, and whose life seems spent in the futile attempt to make successful dirt-pies out of sand, seizing the favourable opportunity afforded by the general confusion, makes a surreptitious attack on Jacquot’s tail, which our friend resents so fiercely that the little dirt-pie architect is carried off the scene in floods of tears, and Jacquot himself, rather unjustly, is sent in-doors, at which he complains loudly. Finally the signal is given, and off the runners start. Purple Pinafore’s efforts to keep in front are very futile, and he is soon left standing in solitary grandeur in the middle of the street, more than half inclined to cry, till he bethinks himself of the solace of his never-failing, ever-present friends and comforters, Thumbs, which soothe all his sorrows, as he placidly sucks them with an air of the most thorough enjoyment; and he stoutly refuses to part with them even when offered an apple in exchange.
Ah! my little friend! may you always be equally staunch in your friendships, and superior to bribery! Our moralising reverie was, however, put an end to by the return of the runners. One fellow in a scarlet flannel coat came in first easily; but there is a most exciting struggle for second place, finally gained by a swarthy lad with large ear-rings. Number three had to be consoled for his monetary disappointment by a present of apples.
But, suddenly, we perceive an extraordinary, unearthly-looking object striding up the street towards us, covering a dozen paces in a stride. Our first idea is that the “tall Agrippa,” spoken of in a story book, “so tall he all but reached the sky,” has been suddenly brought to life again, and we feel quite a thrill of excitement at the prospect of seeing so eminent an individual in the flesh. We await his approach in astonishment, mingled with awe. How the children scatter as he comes nearer and nearer! Alas! alas! “tall Agrippa” turns out to be only a herdsman from the Landes; his gigantic stature arises from his being mounted on stilts, fully five feet high. No wonder he clears the ground at such a pace. He bears on his back a gigantic fishing-basket, out of which dangle the heads of the unfortunate fowl he has brought to sell to the Arcachonais public. John the Baptist like, he is clad in a sheepskin garment, which, the woolly side out, is girt about his waist by a leathern girdle, and in his right hand he carries a wand twice as long as himself, which he uses as a walking-stick. When he is out of hearing, a servant-girl near us gives an attentive audience a long account of the terrors she felt the first time “that monster there” suddenly appeared before her. “How could she hope to escape from a monster that could cross the garden she was in, just in two steps?” It was impossible. At all events, her legs failed her at the critical moment, and she dropped trembling and breathless behind a bush, and gave herself up for lost. Happily for her, on he strode, to her unspeakable relief, and she escaped his notice. “Perhaps he could not see so far down as the ground,” which ingenious supposition elicits great applause from the listeners, who are very sympathising to the damsel’s terrors.
We now migrate to the shop of the apothecary, for the pleasure of a talk in English; our friend the pharmacien, possessing the distinction of being the only inhabitant of Arcachon, who can, in the very least degree, speak our native tongue. As for ourselves, the people never tire of expressing their intense admiration and astonishment at our fluency in the English language, quite oblivious of the fact that it is natural we should speak our native tongue with ease. After having laid in a large stock of new ideas on the subject of English pronunciation, we wend our steps homeward. How the great waggons we meet on our way, laden with resin from the forest, remind us of Rosa Bonheur’s pictures! As they advance slowly towards us, the foreshortened front view of the whole equipage is a wonderful sight; and a close inspection of the unique harness arrangements does not detract from the peculiarity of the tout ensemble. The mules in the first waggon look anything but happy under the ladder-like yoke, between the rungs of which their heads are past; but seem considerably to bemoan the unsociable arrangement by which their heads are kept nearly three feet asunder, and all demonstrations of friendship to each other thus relentlessly prevented. The waggons are on their way to La Teste de Buch, that ancient town to which so many historical memories cling, and over which a halo of glory still hovers, from its having in the old, old days of yore been the habitat of the famous Captaux de Buch—those “mighty men of valour,” who are now gone the way of all flesh. Wrapt in a shroud of glory, they have crumbled to dust in the plain of Lamothe. Once the mightiest of feudal lords, now—alas! that we should have to say it—their very names well nigh forgotten in the very region over which they exercised their majestic sway.
THE BAY OF THE DEAD.
AN ARMORICAN LEGEND.
Wedded to-day is one who dwells
A Breton bay beside;
His soul belongs to the Evil One,
Pity the tender bride!
“Say, husband, where be those tales of woe,
Those ghosts which shiver and roam,
With which you frighten’d me once and again,
Before I left my home?”
“Hush, wife! not a word! I hold my lands
Of the Frankish conquerors free,
So long as I’m ready to row their dead
To the sepulchre over the sea.”
“They come not to-night!” she laughed in glee,
“The witch-lights are flitting past;
They will fear the waves and the thunder’s roll
And the rain which falleth fast.”
“That low soft knock—’tis a summons for me!
They wait—nay, cease thy sorrow;
On Cornwall’s coast I must land them to-night,
Or I dare not face the morrow!”
“Ah! stay this night—but once I pray!”
“I may not linger, sweet!”
One kiss, and he speeds to the gusty shore,
But the spirits are far more fleet.
