thereby immensely gained in interest. "Ursule Mirouet," of which I shall
have more to say further on, is not to be compared to such masterpieces
as "Eugenie Grandet." But a leading incident of "Ursule Mirouet" occurs
at Bourron--a sufficient reason for recalling the story here.

The beauty of our village, like the beauty of French women, to quote
Michelet, "is made up of little nothings." There are a hundred and one
pretty things to see but very few to describe. Who could wish it
otherwise? Little nothings of an engaging kind better agree with us as
daily fare than the seven wonders of the world. With forty thousand
acres of forest at our doors we do not want M. Mattel's newly discovered
underground river within reach as well.

From our garden we yet look upon scenes not of every day. Those sweeps
of bluish-green foliage strikingly contrasted with the brilliant vine
remind us that we are in France, and in a region with most others having
its specialities. Asparagus, not literally but figuratively, nourishes
the entire population of Bourron. Everyone here is a market gardener on
his own account, and the cultivation of asparagus for the Paris markets
is a leading feature of local commerce.

There is no more graceful foliage than that of this plant, and
gratefully the eye rests upon these waves of delicate green under a
blazing, grape-ripening sky. Making gold-green lines between are vines,
a succession of asparagus beds and vineyards separating our village from
its better known and more populous neighbour, Marlotte. In the opposite
direction we see brown-roofed, white-walled houses surmounted by a
pretty little spire. This is Bourron. To reach it we pass a double row
of homesteads, rustic interiors of small farmer or market gardener, the
one, as our French neighbours say, more picturesque than the other.