blazing fire, my ear soothed by the singing of the coffee-pot, which
seems to gossip with my fire-irons, the sense of smell gently excited by
the aroma of the Arabian bean, and my eyes shaded by my cap pulled down
over them, it often seems as if each cloud of the fragrant steam took a
distinct form. As in the mirages of the desert, in each as it rises, I
see some image of which my mind had been longing for the reality.

At first the vapor increases, and its color deepens. I see a cottage on
a hillside: behind is a garden shut in by a whitethorn hedge, and through
the garden runs a brook, on the banks of which I hear the bees humming.

Then the view opens still more. See those fields planted with apple-
trees, in which I can distinguish a plough and horses waiting for their
master! Farther on, in a part of the wood which rings with the sound of
the axe, I perceive the woodsman's hut, roofed with turf and branches;
and, in the midst of all these rural pictures, I seem to see a figure of
myself gliding about. It is my ghost walking in my dream!

The bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, compels me to break off my
meditations, in order to fill up the coffee-pot. I then remember that I
have no cream; I take my tin can off the hook and go down to the
milkwoman's.

Mother Denis is a hale countrywoman from Savoy, which she left when quite
young; and, contrary to the custom of the Savoyards, she has not gone
back to it again. She has neither husband nor child, notwithstanding the
title they give her; but her kindness, which never sleeps, makes her
worthy of the name of mother.

A brave creature! Left by herself in the battle of life, she makes good