here seems a wholly unknown art. In a fairly clean inn, however, a
good-natured landlady allowed us to make ourselves at home alike in
kitchen and pantry. One of our party unearthed a time-honoured
tea-pot--we had of course taken the precaution of carrying tea with
us--one by one milk and sugar were forthcoming in what may be called
wholesale fashion, milk-jugs and sugar-basins being apparently articles
of superfluity, and in company of a charming old dog and irresistible
kitten, also of some quiet wayfarers, we five-o'clocked merrily enough.

Our business at Larchant was not wholly archaeological. Buffeted as we
were by the hurricane, we managed to pay a visit in search of eggs and
poultry for the table at home.

If peasant and farming life in France certainly from time to time
reminds us of Zola's "La Terre," we are also reminded of an aspect which
the great novelist ignores. As will be seen from the following sketch
sordidness and aspiration oft times, I am almost tempted to say, and
most often, go hand in hand.

We see one generation addicted to an existence so laborious and material
as to have no counterpart in England; under the same roof growing up
another, sharing all the advantages of social and intellectual progress.

Not far from the church we called upon a family of large and wealthy
farmers, owners of the soil they cultivate, millionaires by comparison
with our neighbours at Bourron.

We arrived in the midst of a busy time, a steam corn thresher plying in
the vast farm-yard. The interior of the big, straggling farm-house we
did not see, but two aged women dressed like poor peasants received us