was a large osier bed, resorted to by flocks of the common
sparrow. Here I set my traps. But it being summer time, and
(as I complained when twitted with want of success) French
birds being too stupid to know what the traps were for, I
never caught a feather. Now this osier bed was a favourite
game covert for the sportsmen of the chateau; and what was my
delight and astonishment when one morning I found a dead hare
with its head under the fallen brick of my trap. How
triumphantly I dragged it home, and showed it to Rose and
Auguste, - who more than the rest had 'mocked themselves' of
my traps, and then carried it in my arms, all bloody as it
was (I could not make out how both its hind legs were broken)
into the salon to show it to the old Marquise. Mademoiselle
Henriette, who was there, gave a little scream (for effect)
at sight of the blood. Everybody was pleased. But when I
overheard Rose's SOTTO VOCE to the Marquise: 'Comme ils sont
gentils!' I indignantly retorted that 'it wasn't kind of the
hare at all: it was entirely due to my skill in setting the
traps. They would catch anything that put its head into
them. Just you try.'

How severe are the shocks of early disillusionment! It was
not until long after the hare was skinned, roasted, served as
CIVET and as PUREE that I discovered the truth. I was not at
all grateful to the gentlemen of the chateau whose dupe I had
been; was even wrath with my dear old 'Maman' for treating
them with extra courtesy for their kindness to her PETIT
CHERI.

That was a happy summer. After it was ended, and it was time