by the music of waving barley and wheat, dancing leaves, and
chaffinches, tame as canaries, singing in the branches.

About a mile off is the little village of Villiers, which is even
prettier than our own, and which of course artists have long ago found
out. The wayside inn near the bridge, crossing the little river Morin,
bears witness to the artistic popularity of this quiet spot. The panels
of the parlour are covered with sketches, some in oil, some in
water-colour, souvenirs with which visitors have memorialized their
stay. Some of these hasty effects are very good, and the general effect
is heightened by choice old pottery, tastefully arranged above.
Villiers-sur-Morin would be an admirable summer resort for an artist
fond of hanging woods, running streams, and green pastures, and a dozen
more possessing the same attraction lie close at hand.

But, though within so easy a distance of Paris, life is homely, and
fastidious travellers must keep to the beaten tracks and high roads
where good hotels are to be found. When he goes into the by-ways, a
way-side inn is all that he must expect, and, if there is no
_diligence_, a lift in the miller's or baker's cart; the farmers' wives
driving to market with their cheese and butter are always willing to
give the stranger a seat, but money must not be offered in return for
such obligingness. We must never forget that, if these country folks are
laborious, and perhaps sordid, in their thriftiness, they are proud, and
refuse to be paid for what costs them nothing. The same characteristic
is very generally found in France.

Fishing is the principal amusement here, and shared by both sexes. What
the Marne and the Morin contain in the way of booty, we hardly know; but
it is certain that more cunning fish, whether perch, tench, or bream,