THE KING-FISHER 



During hot July days, I often recall to 



my mind a certain wooded pass in the 



forest of Auberivc, where the Aube, yet 



near its source, opens its way between 



steep crags under the shade of hazel-nut, 



ash trees, and beeches. The branches are 



inextricably interwoven above the little 



river, so that it is almost dark there in 



broad daylight. A phosphorescent light 



filters through the dense foliage, and on the 



black soil — slimy alluvia — those plants abound that 



are usually found in damp places ; rows of purple 



willows stand close together on the banks ; the woodbine 



