scorching August that had been known even in the South of France for years.
The recollection of those burning hours in that shanty will be ever green.

Nevertheless, the time spent at Beynac left some pleasant memories. The
days were fiery, and, when the south wind blew, almost suffocating; but
when the sun went down into the west there usually came a beneficent
change. During the few minutes that the golden circle lay seemingly upon
the edge of the world, a boat crossing the river appeared to glide over
unfathomable depths of splendour; then gradually over the fields of maize
and tobacco, and where the yellow stubble of the corn long since reaped had
been left, there spread the deep-toned lustre of evening. As the brown dusk
filled the valley, and under the sombre walnut-trees the wayside cross
became like the spectre of one, shrill voices of old women were heard
calling the geese and turkeys that still lingered in the fields.

The geese were often left to come home by themselves, after spending the
day along the banks of the river. They belonged to various people, but,
being eminently sociable birds, they started off together in flocks of
fifty or more. Although there must have been causes of jealousy and rivalry
among them, they never seemed to quarrel. They knew when it was time to go
home by the failing light, and in the dusk I often met them marching along
the road like a regiment of soldiers. As they reached houses to which some
of them belonged, detachments would fall out and the others would go
on. Every bird would return to the place which had for it the sweet
associations of its gosling innocence.

It is now night--the calm summer night without a moon, but spangled with
stars. Among those which the Dordogne reflects and holds as if they were
its own, is the planet Mars, which gleams readily in the midst of a swarm
of lesser yellow lights. The river here is broad and still; there is not