the music of the birds or the voices of nature; he sees nothing but the
image of his Saviour, he kneels as he knelt in childhood before the
cross, he clasps his worn hands, and prays, with many repetitions,
words which evidently bring comfort to his soul. In a few minutes the
old man rises and puts on his cap, with a brass plate on it with the
number of his canton, produces a little can of soup and bread and sits
down on the bank to breakfast; ending by unrolling a morsel of tobacco
from a crumpled paper, putting it into his mouth and going fast asleep.

[Illustration]

Many more such scenes we could record, but they are more fitted for the
pencil than the pen; the artist can easily fill his sketch-book without
going far from Avranches.

But as autumn advances our thoughts are naturally turned more towards
'le sport;' and if we are fortunate enough to be on visiting terms with
the owners of the neighbouring châteaux, we may be present at some
interesting scenes that will remind us of pictures in the galleries at
Versailles.

'With good books, a good rod, and a double gun, one could never weary
of a residence at Avranches,' says an enthusiastic settler who has found
out the right corners in the trout-streams, and, possibly, the denizens
of the neighbouring woods. The truth, however, is that in spite of the
beautifully wooded country round, and the rivers that wind so
picturesquely beneath us; in spite of its unexampled situation and its
glorious view, Avranches is scarcely the spot for a sportsman to select
for a residence.