The Mason-bees 



sling. There is a wayside cross at the end; 

 I stop at the foot of the cross. Here I swing 

 my Bees in every direction. Now, while I 

 am making the box describe inverse circles and 

 loops, while I am pirouetting on my heels to 

 achieve the various curves, up comes a woman 

 from the village and stares at me. Oh, how 

 she stares at me, what a look she gives me ! 

 At the foot of the cross! Acting in such a 

 silly way! People talked about it. It was 

 sheer witchcraft. Had I not dug up a dead 

 body, only a few days before? Yes, I had 

 been to a prehistoric burial-place, I had taken 

 from it a pair of venerable, well-developed 

 tibias, a set of funerary vessels and a few 

 shoulders of horse, placed there as a viaticum 

 for the great journey. I had done this thing; 

 and people knew it. And now, to crown all, 

 the man of evil reputation is found at the 

 foot of a cross indulging in unhallowed antics. 

 No matter — and it shows no small courage 

 on my part — the gyrations are duly accom- 

 plished in the presence of this unexpected wit- 

 ness. Then I retrace my steps and walk west- 

 ward of Serignan. I take the least-frequented 

 paths, I cut across country so as, if possible, to 

 avoid a second meeting. It would be the last 

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