THE RED-BREAST 165 



Stretched on the grass on the outskirts of a wood, build- 

 ing magnificent castles in the air, whilst listening to the 

 appealing cry of the birds of passage. In those days, 1 

 would dream — my heart beating joyously all the while — 

 of my coming youth, of the smiling perspectives of the 

 future, whilst the red - breasts, with their song, were 

 warbling an approving accompaniment to my reveries. 



To-night, I hear them again. The setting sun is just 

 as magnificent — and yet its splendour is not quite the 

 same as of yore. The tints and outlines of the landscape 

 seem to be veiled with some melancholy mist. The time 

 of maturity has come with disillusion, bitter experience, 

 thwarted hopes. At half a yard's distance, there where the 

 water is greenish in the cisterns, a red-breast was sing- 

 ing, perched on a wild rose bush above m}' head. The 

 bird was looking at me familiarly with its arch black 

 eye, seeming to say to me: 



« WeW ! old comrade, you have indeed grown old ! » 

 You, you are ever the same, oh friendly red-breast ! 

 Your breast has yet that fine colour of ripe sorb to which 

 you owe your name! At early dawn, you awake, you, the 

 earliest riser among birds, and sing your melodious 

 tireli. All day long, in the depths of damp woods, you 

 are searching for food under the dead leaves. On Saint- 

 Albin's day, when the meadows arc yet covered with 

 hoar-frost, you bravely select the place of your future 

 nest ; you begin to warble, in order to charm your mate, 



