226 The Boofc of the Goat. 



" Passing through a small village, we stop to salute in- 

 numerable friends, including the Mayor (a retired naval 

 captain), and with him we adjourn to the ' Cafe Dau- 

 phinois/ with the local butcher, a reputed goat expert, to 

 talk goat. All three men were huge specimens of Southern 

 Frenchmen, open-hearted and gay. I came from Paris, 

 had news of the capital, and so we chatted for an hour. 

 The butcher's knowledge of goats turned out to be might 

 I say? somewhat sanguinary in detail, and he regarded 

 them solely as an article of food. So into the chaise we 

 clambered, with many an ' entente cordiale ' spoken and 

 drunk, and up amongst the hills we ambled. 



" Fresh herds peeped out at us from the sloping banks 

 leading down into the fields, and old women and girls 

 saluted us from their hillocks on which they mounted 

 guard over the arable land. 



" Suddenly we turn into a path in the young wheat 

 between two big walnut trees, and begin dipping down 

 in a tiny valley in which rests the large red-tiled farm- 

 house of Pere Babier. One huge roof covers the immense 

 stable, the dwelling-room, and the little sleeping apart- 

 ments. It is four o'clock, and everyone sons, daughters, 

 grandchildren, and servants has come in from the fields 

 for their ' gouter.' The rough oak table has two large 

 bowls on it, one full of fresh cheeses, and one full of a 

 lingering, clinging onion salad. Flagons of a soft red 

 wine, a heap of murderous-looking knives, and slabs of 

 hearth-baked peasant bread complete the spread. All 

 cross themselves, ami we fall to. Dead silence for ten 

 minutes, and then ' mon camarade ' (the writer) is 

 invited to tell of wonderful Paris, of his /tour du 

 monde,' to the kindly little band, which he does in glib 

 and ungrammatical French, delighting the listeners by a 

 few words of patois that come back from student days 

 spent in the Alps. 



