CHAPTER XIV 



THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER 



WE are in the middle of July. The 

 astronomical dog-days are just begin- 

 ning; but in reality the torrid season has 

 anticipated the calendar and for some weeks 

 past the heat has been overpowering. 



This evening in the village they are cele- 

 brating the National Festival. 1 While the 

 little boys and girls are hopping around a 

 bonfire whose gleams are reflected upon the 

 church-steeple, while the drum is pounded 

 to mark the ascent of each rocket, I am sit- 

 ting alone in a dark corner, in the compara- 

 tive coolness that prevails at nine o'clock, 

 harking to the concert of the festival of the 

 fields, the festival of the harvest, grander by 

 far than that which, at this moment, is being 

 celebrated in the village square with gun- 

 powder, lighted torches, Chinese lanterns 



1 The 14th of July, the anniversary of the fall of the 

 Bastille. — Translator's Note. 



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