CHAPTER LXXVI 



THE SWARM 



UNCLE PAUL was still talking when they heard 

 a persistent noise in the garden: pom! pom! 

 ! pom! as if some smith had set up his anvil un- 

 der the big elder-tree. They ran to see what it was. 

 Jacques was gravely tapping with a key on the water- 

 ing can: pom! pom! pom! pom! Mother Ambrois- 

 ine was busily beating a copper saucepan with a 

 small stone: pom! pom! pom! pom! 



Have our two good servants lost their heads, that 

 they are giving themselves up, with the most serious 

 air in the world, to this charivari? Without sus- 

 pending their singular occupation, they exchange a 

 few words. "They are going toward the currant- 

 bush," says Jacques. "They look as if they were 

 going away," answers Mother Ambroisine; and the 

 pom! pom! pom! pom! is resumed. 



Just then Uncle Paul and his nephews and niece 

 come up. One glance is enough to explain every- 

 thing to Uncle Paul. Over the garden there is a 

 kind of red smoke flying, which sometimes rises and 

 sometimes sinks, sometimes scatters and sometimes 

 comes together in a compact mass. A monotonous 

 whirring 1 of wings proceeds from the midst of the red 

 smoke. Jacques and Mother Ambroisine, still tap- 

 ping, follow the cloud. Uncle Paul looks on, greatly 



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