rapid motion in a wrong direction and the luckless shepherd had to start in hot pursuit—­using the politest of language; or, again, when some natives on tiny donkeys or skittish mules came by, their faces breaking into a respectful grin as they wished us “bon jour.”  Skirting the railway line for a short distance, we drove into Argeles rather unexpectedly, our ride having seemed all too short.  However, there was our hotel—­the Grand Hotel d’Angleterre (everything is grand now-a-days)—­standing boldly by the road, with the quaint, though poor-looking village about it, and for another few days that was to be our abode. [Illustration] This hotel, though possessing less of a reputation than the Hotel de France, nevertheless commands a finer view on all sides, and is a pleasanter abode on that account.  The afternoon was still young when we arrived, so as soon as we had stowed our luggage we sallied out for a walk along the road to Pierrefitte.  A short way from the hotel, an old shepherd was standing in the middle of the road leaning on his staff, with his flock of sheep all round him, and the dog lolling idly on the grass.  The tall poplars by the roadside waking into life, the merry stream meandering at their feet, and the back ground of mountains tipped with snow, filled up the scene.  We accosted the old man with a good-day, and asked him several questions about the weather and himself, all of which he answered in a genial way, and which strung together made up

“THE ARGELES SHEPHERD’S REPLY.”

  Good-day, sir!  The weather, sir; will it be wet? 
  You see, sir, I hardly can say,
  We gen’rally know at the earliest dawn
  What weather we’ll have in the day;
  But at night—­in these mountains—­I couldn’t be sure,
  And I’d rather not tell you, sir, wrong. 
  And yet, what does a day here or there make to you? 
  If it rains, ’twill be fine before long. 
  Have I always looked after the sheep, sir?  Why, No! 
  I’ve served in the army, sir, sure. 
  Let me see—­ah!—­it’s now thirty summers ago
  Since those hardships we had to endure. 
  Ay, I fought with your soldiers ’mid bleak Russia’s snow,
  Half numb’d in the trenches I worked,
  And suffered what few of you gents, sir, would know,
  But somehow, we none of us shirked. 
  Was I wounded, sir?  No, sir! thank Goodness for that,
  Though I’ve seen some stiff fighting, ’tis true. 
  In Africa ’twasn’t all sunshine and play,
  And in Austria we’d plenty to do. 
  Do I like being a shepherd, sir, roaming the hills,
  Just earning enough to buy bread? 
  Well, I wouldn’t have cared all my days, for the ills
  And the life that as soldier I led. 
  No, sir! no! though ’twas well enough then, Peace, you see,
  Is the best when one’s hair’s turning grey! 
  Will I drink your good health, sir?  Ay, proud I shall be,
  And, thanking you kindly—­Good-day!!!