glance wandering, he was silent a moment, and, as if the better to awaken recollection of the delightful hours he was pondering on, he quavered:
"Une poule sur un mur."
I was obliged to go over all the little round of our life for him, and I was vexed with myself for my ignorance of slight details which he himself, so far away, had almost guessed by sheer force of thinking about us.
Then suddenly he changed the conversation's course; he spoke of himself, of his house, of his farmer who had given him some anxiety, of his vines which were suffering from mildew, of what he had done and what he counted on doing. From childhood I had known my father as a man of projects, enterprising, loving change and experiments. How many ingenious plans he had made for enlarging or embellishing his house, for augmenting the product of his farm, for battling against the enemies of trees, grain, and vine-stock! Endowed to an exceptional degree with the spirit of initiative, he lacked as much all faculty of realization, so that his projects came to nothing. This time I was frightened by the abundance of the schemes that he commenced to develop for me in his poor, broken, panting voice. He was concerned about the construction of a veranda in front of the dining-room,
