Tarasque, as the county dragon was called, flourished himself and
his tail in the town marshes, and entertained shooting parties got up
against him. So you see the passion has lasted a goodish bit.

It follows that, every Sunday morning, Tarascon flies to arms, lets
loose the dogs of the hunt, and rushes out of its walls, with game-
bag slung and fowling-piece on the shoulder, together with a hurly-
burly of hounds, cracking of whips, and blowing of whistles and
hunting-horns. It's splendid to see! Unfortunately, there's a lack of
game, an absolute dearth.

Stupid as the brute creation is, you can readily understand that, in
time, it learnt some distrust.

For five leagues around about Tarascon, forms, lairs, and burrows
are empty, and nesting-places abandoned. You'll not find a single
quail or blackbird, one little leveret, or the tiniest tit. And yet the
pretty hillocks are mightily tempting, sweet smelling as they are of
myrtle, lavender, and rosemary; and the fine muscatels plumped out
with sweetness even unto bursting, as they spread along the banks
of the Rhone, are deucedly tempting too. True, true; but Tarascon
lies behind all this, and Tarascon is down in the black books of the
world of fur and feather. The very birds of passage have ticked it
off on their guide-books, and when the wild ducks, coming down
towards the Camargue in long triangles, spy the town steeples from
afar, the outermost flyers squawk out loudly:

"Look out! there's Tarascon! give Tarascon the go-by, duckies!"

And the flocks take a swerve.