A TALE OF THE GRAND JARDIN 



Mile upon mile of gray moss ; weathered 

 granite clad in ash-coloured lichen ; old 

 brute, the trees here fallen in wind- 

 rows, there standing bleached and life- 

 less, making the hilltops look barer, like 

 the sparse white hairs of age. Only in 

 the gullies a little greenness, dwarfed 

 larches, gnarled birches, tiny firs a 

 hundred years old, and always moss, 

 softer than Persian rug, moss to the 

 ankle, moss to the knee, great boulders 

 covered with it, the very quagmires 

 mossed over so that a careless step 

 plunges one into the sucking black ooze 

 below. 



Through the door of the tent the light- 

 ning showed this endless desolation, and 

 a glimpse of the river forcing its angry 

 way through a defile. 



When the sorry meal was over we 

 smoked, by turns supporting the tent 

 pole in the heavier gusts. My companion 

 was absent-minded and restless; he 

 seemed to have no heart for the small 



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