the Battle of the Vineyards, by a grape-shot. At first, seeing so many
of these white headstones with initials on each one, I conclude that
it is some peculiar French way of marking distances or laying out
plots, and I find my conclusion is utterly erroneous.

"These white stones," M. VESQUIER. explains, "mark the boundaries of
different properties." Odd! The plain is cut up into little patches,
and champagne-growers, like knowing birds, have popped down, on "here
a bit and there a bit and everywhere a bit" from time to time, so that
one headstone records the fact that "here lies the property of J.M.,"
and within a few feet is another headstone "sacred to the memory of
P. and G.," or P. without the G.; then removed but a step or two is
a stone with a single "A." on it. and a short distance from the road
is "H."--poor letter "H" apparently dropped for ever. Here lie "M.,"
and "M. and C.," and several other heroes whose names recall many a
glorious champagne. And so on, and so on; the initials recurring again
quite unexpectedly, the plots of ground held by the same proprietor
being far apart. But, as it suddenly occurs to me, if these
champagne-growers are all in the same plains for twenty miles or
more round about, all in much the same position, and all the grapes
apparently the same, why isn't it all the same wine?

"_Karascho!_" exclaims DAUBINET, who, under the hot rays of the early
morning sun, is walking in his shirt-sleeves, his coat over his arm,
his hat in one hand, and a big sunshade in the other, "I will tell
you." Then he commences, and except for now and then breaking off into
Russian expletives, and interspersing his discourse with selections
from British national melodies, his explanation is lucid, and the
reasons evident. Soil and sun account for everything; the soil being
varied, and the sun shifty. "_Pou ni my? comprenez-vous?_" he asks.