6 4 



Rock Thrushes 



vase stood, filled with real mountain blossoms and 

 leaves, and constantly replenished. 



The mother had a sweet face, surrounded by the 

 goffered edging of her white cap ; and the shrivelled 

 " Gran' mere," was a member of the family. 



Their French was not exactly Parisian, indeed it 

 was such a mountain patois that we had a certain 

 difficulty in understanding it. 



Our French, which hitherto we had thought 

 decidedly indifferent, shone out with a lustre we had 

 never hoped for, when the mother of the home asked 

 us what part of France we came from. Was it Paris ? 

 " Oh no," we answered, " we are English, not French." 

 " English ? " was the astonished reply, " we thought 

 you were French." Then a moment's pause, and a 

 polite stare indicative of much curiosity, followed by 

 me announcement, " We have never seen any English 

 before." And there were further glances of deep 

 curiosity, with a tone in the voice which seemed to 

 say, " That accounts for the milk in the cocoa-nut ; 

 who but the mad English lady and gentleman would 

 be riding over the Auvergne mountains in a drench- 

 ing thunderstorm ? " 



It is true we seemed to be taking our pleasures 

 sadly that day, as we sat there with the rain-water 

 trickling down our clothes into puddles on the floor. 

 But we wouldn't have missed this enforced visit for 

 anything, for this insight of French peasant life was 

 interesting, and we learnt afresh that " kind hearts are 

 more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman 

 blood." " Wouldn't madame and monsieur have some- 



