around Marseilles. Nothing but dust; dust on the roads, dust in the fields,
dust on every leaf of the parched, unhappy-looking trees that surround the
country-houses of the Marseillais. The fruit and vegetables consumed there
are brought for miles overland, or by water from places on the coast;
flowers are scarce--objecting, probably, to grow in so arid a soil, and in
a heat that, for some months of the year, is perfectly African. Game there
is little or none; notwithstanding which, there are nowhere to be found
more enthusiastic sportsmen than at Marseilles. It is on this hint M.
Dumas speaks. His description of the manner in which the worthy burghers
of Marseilles make war upon the volatiles is rather amusing.

"Every Marseillais who aspires to the character of a keen sportsman, has
what is termed a _poste à feu_. This is a pit or cave dug in the ground in
the vicinity of a couple of pine-trees, and covered over with branches. In
addition to the pine-trees, it is usual to have _cimeaux_, long spars of
wood, of which two are supported horizontally on the branches of the trees,
and a third planted perpendicularly in the ground. These _cimeaux_ are
intended as a sort of treacherous invitation to the birds to come and rest
themselves. So regularly as Sunday morning arrives, the Marseillais
Cockney installs himself in his pit, arranges a loophole through which he
can see what passes outside, and waits with all imaginable patience. The
question that will naturally be asked, is--What does he wait for?

"He waits for a thrush, an ortolan, a beccafico, a robin-redbreast, or any
other feathered and diminutive biped. He is not so ambitious as to expect
a quail. Partridges he has heard of; of one, at least, a sort of phoenix,
reproduced from its own ashes, and seen from time to time before an
earthquake, or other great catastrophe. As to the hare, he is well aware
that it is a fabulous animal of the unicorn species.