Chapter xiv 



THE BEMBEX 



One of my favourite spots for the observations 

 which I will now describe is not far from 

 Avignon, on the right bank of the Rhone, 

 opposite the mouth of the Durance. It is the 

 Bois des Issarts. Let not the reader mistake 

 the value of this word hois, which usually sug- 

 gests a carpet of cool moss and the shade of 

 tall trees, with a dim light filtering through the 

 leaves. The scorched plains where the Cicada 

 grates out his ditty on the pale olive-tree know 

 none of these delicious retreats filled with cool 

 shadow. 



The Bois des Issarts is a coppice of holm-oaks 

 no higher than one's head and sparingly dis- 

 tributed in scanty clumps which, even at their 

 feet, hardly temper the force of the sun's rays. 

 When I used to settle myself in some part of the 

 coppice suitable for my observations, on certain 

 afternoons in the dog-days of July and August, 

 I had the shelter of a large umbrella, which 

 later, in the most unexpected fashion, lent me 



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