202 The Hunting Wasps 



their branches and are twisted into grotesque 

 positions, or even he flat on the ground. An 

 hour or more is spent in crossing this wooded 

 zone, which from a distance shows against the 

 sides of the Ventoux hke a black belt. Then 

 once more the beeches become bushy and 

 scattered. We have reached their upper boun- 

 dary and, to the great relief of all of us, despite 

 the sorrel-leaves, we have also reached the 

 stopping-place selected for our lunch. 



We are at the source of the Grave, a slender 

 stream of water caught, as it bubbles from the 

 ground, in a series of long beech-trunk troughs, 

 where the mountain shepherds come to water 

 their flocks. The temperature of the spring is 

 45° F. ; and its coolness is a priceless boon for 

 us who have come from the sultry oven of the 

 plain. The cloth is spread on a charming 

 carpet of Alpine plants, with glittering among 

 them the thyme-leaved paronychia, whose wide, 

 thin bracts look like silver scales. The food is 

 taken out of the bags, the bottles extracted 

 from their bed of hay. On this side are the 

 joints, the legs of mutton stuffed with garlic, 

 the stacks of loaves ; on that, the tasteless 

 chickens, for our grinders to toy with presently, 

 when the edge has been taken off our appetite. 

 At no great distance, set in a place of honour, 

 are the Ventoux cheeses spiced with winter 



