94 GOLDEN DAYS 



and take breath between his carolHngs. 

 You know his song in an English lane ? 

 "A very little bit of bread and no cheese." 

 Well, in Brittany he does not mention 

 cheese. He found that fromage would 

 not fit his musical phrasing, but he will 

 (so 'tis said) chatter to you of the poul- 

 piquets on any summer morning. 



We followed the green glooms of the 

 winding trail, all tremulous with wild- 

 flowers, past clumps of foxglove bells, 

 where fat bees crawled and buzzed con- 

 tentedly, and then we reached the 

 shadow-haunted pool. Here in the late 

 gloaming the fauns and dryads keep their 

 tryst, but earlier come the slow-moving 

 cattle to the watering, led by a goddess of 

 untutored grace, white-coiifed, sedate with 

 shining, dreamy eyes. 



All this is true, for when you pass that 

 way you'll find the pool's brink splashed 

 to purple mire where cows have stood 

 with gleaming sides and misty breath, the 

 water dripping from their cool, moist 

 nozzles ; and at the pool's end, where the 

 path sweeps round under the thick nut- 

 branches, you'll come upon the print of 



