52 GOLDEN DAYS 



but the beggars still carry the sdnes to- 

 day. Should a latter-day Breton poet 

 become a dry-fly enthusiast, he will strike 

 terror to the hearts of the people. We 

 shall have the sone of the poacher, and 

 Brittany will become an angling paradise. 



The Breton is bugel-fur (a wise child). 

 So wise and childlike is he, that his priests 

 have been hard put to it how best to 

 manage him. For untold ages he 

 worshipped the sun. During the summer 

 solstice a thousand fires blazed on the 

 Breton landes. To-day these fires still 

 flame, but the priests have discreetly 

 blessed them ; the roaring faggots of the 

 Thunder God are now kindled to the 

 honour of St. John. Oh, but this Eve of 

 St. John is wonderful ! Stand on a hill- 

 side in Morbihan as this night of June 

 begins to wrap the lower landes in mystery 

 — watch as a single fire starts into flame. 

 As the night darkens, flickering points of 

 light spring up along the landes. They 

 grow and widen to the distant sky-line. 

 A red glare fills the earth. A thousand 

 sacred fires are blazing. 



Listen, you will hear a sonorous whisper 



