course not his at all but his employer's, who sold coal to the villagers. However, when one walked all day beside the patient brutes, what would you? They became like one's own, was it not so?
We heard in a daze. Cap and baggy breeches, slothful gait, rough shoes, warming smile—to what had our "Suisse" descended? For him it was we had so peremptorily halted. Obligingly he drew the oxen toward the sun and posing his elbow on a glossy back, shouldered his goad. "C'est bien?" he inquired, and without being asked looked pleasant.
When the exposure was made we took his address. "Jean-Baptiste Barnèche, St. Pierre-Miquelon,—only it is unnecessary to write more than Baptiste," he added with a hint of the Sunday air. "Every one knows me, the sacristan." Gently he prodded a flank. "Bon jour, M'sieu, Bon jour, M'dame. I shall look for the picture you have promised."
"Bon jour. Monsieur Barnèche," we answered, recalling the ring of a staff and blare of gold.
"Hu dia!" he summoned the oxen. Then looking back, "In this way Basque drivers everywhere address their bêtes."
"That explains the manners, the versatility, the honest smile," said my companion as we continued up-hill. "He is Basque."
On the way to the first height that tops the town, palings were decked with multi-coloured woollens hung there by women who busily paddled and
