noise, if noise it can be called, of the mower's scythe, the rustle of
acacia leaves, and the notes of the stock-dove, looking back as upon a
nightmare to the horn of the tramway conductor, and the perpetual grind
of the stone-mason's saw. Yes! to quit Paris at a time of tropic heat,
and nestle down in some country resort is, indeed, like exchanging
Dante's lower circle for Paradise. The heat has followed us here, but
with a screen of luxuriant foliage ever between us and the burning blue
sky, and with a breeze rippling the leaves always, no one need complain.

With the cocks and the hens, and the birds and the bees, we are all up
and stirring betimes; there are dozens of cool nooks and corners if we
like to spend the morning out of doors, and do not feel enterprising
enough to set out on an exploring expedition by diligence or rail. After
the midday meal everyone takes a siesta, as a matter of course, waking
up between four and five o'clock for a ramble; wherever we go we find
lovely prospects. Quiet little rivers and canals winding in between
lofty lines of poplars, undulating pastures and amber cornfields,
picturesque villages crowned by a church spire here and there, wide
sweeps of highly cultivated land interspersed with rich woods,
vineyards, orchards and gardens--all these make up the scenery
familiarized to us by some of the most characteristic of French
painters.

Just such tranquil rural pictures have been portrayed over and over
again by Millet, Corot, Daubigny, and in this very simplicity often lies
their charm. No costume or grandiose outline is here as in Brittany, no
picturesque poverty, no poetic archaisms; all is rustic and pastoral,
but with the rusticity and pastoralness of every day.

We are in the midst of one of the wealthiest and best cultivated regions