The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1904-02-04

IRON the summit of certain am
pie hill near Champrosay the view
is rarely beautiful and has inspired
many poet and painter. But this
story is not concerned with the land
scape. AT the foot Of the hill, in the
winding, picturesque valley, stands a
rough, weather-beaten cottage. 1t has
stood there for years and years, and the
woods Of Senart, opposite, look down
upon it with a long recognized COM
radeship.
The cottage is not empty, oh, no, In
deed! That can be attested easily
enough by the white muslin curtains,
coarse but clean, that fiutter in the tiny,
open windows; and, also, by the pretty
roses that bloom on every side. Old
fashioned roses, all, with names that
seem to carry something of scent and
glow in their very syllables; there is
the climbing Provence rose vine, an
abandon of plump pinkness; the yell
low eglantine in its glad profusion,
there are the little Burnet roses, cream
and red.
Out. of the open cottage door came
two figures-an old brown man and an
old gray1Woman, the man in corduroys,
the woman wearing a neat white cot
ton cap and blue apron. They NOV e
With the burdened gait of French peas
ants, but there is ever a smile upon
their lips. For they are lovers, this
old, bent man and his wife. And they
have been lovers for more than two
score years
No sooner have they come into view
than burst Of exquisite melody greets
them, shrill and sweet, piercingly
sweet, now diving, swallow wise, into
tender warnings, f1uting of liquid ca
dences; now fastening to ascend, soar
ing high and higher in eager, joyful
ecStaSieS.
Then one sees what one has failed
to observe before, UP among the yellow
eglantine and the climbing Provence
rose vines hangs a wicker cage con-
tanning thrush.
"Chrysostome! lie jolt Chrysostome!"
says the old man, approaching the cage.
Good morning, Chrysos tome" He
feeds the bird out Of the small
store of millet with which he has filled
his pocket. Babel, his wife, watches
him furtively for second, and as she
sees his crippled movements she signs
to herself:
my poor Pierre, he grows weaker
every day. If l only had some rich
Burgundy to give him. But, helas! we
are poor. Well, the good God knows
what He does"
AS Pierre turns around Babel dis
misses the worried expression from her
nervous little face, and summons the
ever ready smile.
They had not always been poor, this
loving old couple-not so very poor,
at least. Before the rheumatism had
settled down upon him, when he had
the use of his strong, willing limbs,
Pierre had gotten along very comfort
ably farming in that fertile valley.
Often the artists, who would hang
around the hills of Champrosay with
their easels and canvas as the bees
hang around the clover, would say to
him:
"Why do you not move into town
and work? You would make much
more money in a town. Now, beyond
the woods there, at Soisy for example,
But the broad shouldered, hearty
peasand would smile cheerfully and
would wisely shake his head
Monsieur is kind to suggest But.
no, no. We have been happy here.
my wife and /. This is our place in
the world, and here we are to live till
the good God says Come Even then
ah you will laugh. monsieur, but /
will tell you what / say to my Wife.
say. Babel, let us pray that the good
God will permit us to have in His
heaven just such a cottage as this"
May your wish be fulfilled" the ar
lists would reply before going their
way.
That was some years back. Now
well, they are still happy, Pierre and