ASPLENIUM SEPTENTRIONALE, ABROAD. 41 
I seldom look at Septentrionale without being, in 
thought, carried away to beautiful Luchon. I seem 
once more to be by the side of the Fern-covered 
rock. It stands jutting out on the road leading 
into Spain, down which gaily-dressed muleteers 
are driving their mules, laden with wood for the 
winter's use ; the merry bells are tinkling in the 
air as the poor mules shake their heads under the 
heavy burden. On my left hand are jagged rocks, 
whose crevices are gay with wild flowers ; on the 
right are beech-covered hills, with pretty chalets 
dotted about here and there, slanting down to the 
town, with the river, lined with golden poplars, 
flowing through. Before me, in the far distance, is 
the Port de Venasque : its snow-capped peaks glitter 
like diamonds in the sun, and seem to sparkle 
with delight at the glorious scene stretched out 
beneath them in the fair land of Spain. I in- 
habited one of those chalets on the beech-covered 
hill. The garden is a very wilderness of flowers, 
and in this wilderness there is a little oratory 
with a statue of the Blessed Virgin, whose shrine 
