"There is a tradition, however, at Marseilles, that during the last three
months of the year, flocks of wild pigeons pass over, on their way from
Africa or Kamschatka, or some other distant country. Within the memory of
man no one has ever seen one of these flights; but it would nevertheless
be deemed heresy to doubt the fact. At this season, therefore, the
sportsman provides himself with tame pigeon, which he fastens by a string
to the _cimeaux_, in such a manner that the poor bird is obliged to keep
perpetually on the wing, not being allowed rope enough to reach a perch.
After three or four Sundays passed in this manner, the unfortunate decoy
dies of a broken heart."

There is not nearly so much caricature in this picture as our readers may
be disposed to think. Whoever has passed a few weeks of the autumn in a
French provincial town, must have witnessed and laughed at the very
comical proceedings of the _chasseurs_, the high-sounding title assumed by
every Frenchman who ever pointed a gun at a cock-sparrow. One sees them
going forth in the morning in various picturesque and fanciful costumes,
their loins girded with a broad leathern belt, a most capacious game-bag
slung over their shoulder, a fowling-piece of murderous aspect balanced on
their arm; their heads protected from the October sun by every possible
variety of covering, from the Greek skull-cap to the broad-brimmed Spanish
sombrero. Away they go, singly, or by twos and threes, accompanied by a
whole regiment of dogs, for the most part badly bred, and worse broken
curs, which, when they get into the field, go pottering about in a style
that would sorely tempt an English sportsman to bestow upon them the
contents of both barrels. Towards the close of the day, take a stroll
outside the town, and you meet the heroes returning. "Well, what sport?"
"_Pas mal, mon cher_. Not so bad," is the reply, in a tone of
ill-concealed triumph; and plunging his hand into his game-bag, the
chasseur produces--a phthisical snipe, a wood pigeon, an extenuated quail,