Then the season for shooting is over,
    So the sportsmen[1] will leave me alone,
  And I’ll pose as a Go(u)ld Jay in clover,
    Avoiding a dollarous tone.

 To my doctor, perhaps, ’twould be better
    The final decision to leave;
  And I’ll follow his choice to the letter,
    He’s a bird I can always believe.

  That reminds me ’tis time for my dinner,
    And as I don’t wish it to wait,
  As sure as I’m saint and no sinner,
    I’ll be off at my very best rate.

[Footnote 1:  The jay, with all its sophistry, did not apparently know that French sportsmen only kill what they can eat, and therefore its fears would in any case have been groundless.]

And with a concluding chuckle the bright bird disappeared.  We were by this time beyond the “Forest Administration” hut, and close upon the snow, which lay in narrow but deep drifts among the trees, the wood anemones and fine hepaticas growing in groups close by.

As we gradually progressed, the snow occupied the greater part of the way, and we were forced to betake ourselves to the extreme edge; and when at last we emerged into the Vallee de Lienz, trees and branches had to be scrambled over to avoid a wetting, although we were obliged to cross one or two drifts after all.  Getting clear of the trees, we came in full view of the imposing Pic de Lienz (7501 ft.) on the left, and the rounded summit of the Pic d’Ayre (7931 ft.).  Passing the two cabins constructed among the rocks in the open, we crossed the swift brook and began the ascent of the inferior but well-wooded hill below the Pic de Lienz.  There is no proper path up to this Pic (as to most others), and the grass is rather bad for walking; but the views up the valley to the mighty Pic de Neouville (10,146 ft.), and the whole range behind the Pic d’Ayre, are very grand.  We only went to the bend just before the summit of the Col, resting awhile among a huge pile of boulders, brightened by bushes of the mountain rhododendron, before commencing to descend.  A fine specimen of the rather rare Anemone vernalis was a prize that fell to us as we carefully balanced ourselves on the slippery tufts which so often, carrying the feet along at an increased speed, cause the owner to find himself rather unpleasantly acquainted with mother earth.  However, we reached the huts again in safety, and made considerably shorter cuts on our way back to the town, encountering a solitary sheep with a very young lamb at one of our sharp turns.

We arrived at the cafe just in time for tea, and then the horses were put in and we rattled back, having, in spite of the barrenness of Bareges, spent a very pleasant day.

CHAPTER VII.

ST. SAUVEUR.