The Hairy Ammophila 



before Sebastopol; he speaks of his sudden 

 terror when, at night, all alone on outpost 

 duty, squatting in the snow, he saw fall be- 

 side him what he calls a flower-pot. It 

 blazed and flared and shone and lit up every- 

 thing around. The infernal machine threat- 

 ened to burst at every second; and our man 

 gave himself up for lost. But nothing hap- 

 pened: the flower-pot went out quietly. It 

 was a star-shell, an illuminating-contrivance 

 fired to reconnoitre the assailant's outworks 

 in the dark. 



The tragedy of the battle-field is followed 

 by the comedy of the barracks. He lets us 

 into the mysteries of the stew-pan, the secrets 

 of the mess, the humorous hardships of the 

 cells. And, as his stock of anecdotes, sea- 

 soned with racy expressions, is inexhaustible, 

 the supper-hour arrives before any of us has 

 had time to remark how long the evening is. 



Favier first attracted my notice by a mas- 

 ter-stroke. One of my friends had sent me 

 from Marseilles a pair of enormous Crabs, 

 the Maia, the Sea-spider or Spider-crab of 

 the fishermen. I was unpacking the cap- 

 tives when the workmen returned from their 

 dinner: painters, stone-masons, plasterers en- 

 gaged in repairing the house which had been 

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