84 GOLDEN DAYS 



come to dance to-night. Little Mariic 

 here has touched God's brightest golden 

 feather (Jean Pierre always calls butter- 

 flies * God's feathers ') before it flew away, 

 and Suzanne's mother will make a good 

 crayfish stew for supper." 



Of course all children adore Jean Pierre. 

 He is a great big child himself, a charm- 

 ing companion by the river-side. His 

 knowledge of the w^ays of fish is only 

 surpassed by his lore in Breton legend, 

 and yet I think the cloak of superstition 

 rests lightly on the shoulders of Jean 

 Pierre. One can almost catch the covert 

 wink at the conclusion of the dire history 

 of Mary Morgan, " who still combs her 

 green hair midst the reeds by the pool in 

 the first faint blush of a summer morning." 

 Again, on cold winter nights, when the 

 wind whistles at the fast-closed door, and 

 the peasants in the farm kitchen draw 

 closer round the fire, none may then 

 compete in rhetoric with Jean Pierre. 



He know^s every detail of the doings of 

 the Loup-garcni, and the very words 



parts of Brittany where the tourist has never pene- 

 trated. 



