The log cabin Democrat., 1909-10-05

who pass by, apparently untouched. Either the little boys of France are of superhuman virtue or they get filled to repletion before reaching the high way. Coming from the north, the sun ny road runs abruptly into the for est and is compelled to curve among the rocky ridges. Glades branch of to right and left, losing themselves in the green twilight distance, and ex- cept for the murmuring of the leaves utter silence reigns. Here and there the beeches give way to thickets of acacia and hornbeam, and sometimes the tangle is broken by group of pines rising from the needle-strewn soil
 There is an atmosphere of legendry about this ancient forest 1t is not difficult to picture medieval knights or richly-caparisoned horses moving in glittering procession between the smooth trunks of the beeches, or a merlin chanting incantations and weaving spells among the crags above them. None of the trees is very big or gnarled, and yet the forest has suggestion of vast age that is al- most terrible. Before the Huns swept across France to their own discom- titure. these woods were old beyond telling. In the twelfth century they held ruined tower within their green walls. of which the unwritten history was utterly lost, md the ghostly mem- ories of all old Frances sorrows seem to have gathered in their rocky depths.
 It is relief to turn under the acacia and plunge among fallen trunks and rank herbage towards a lighter spot, where open sky can be seen. A grassgrown mound reveals itself as the remains of wall of rough-hewn stones, and beyond it lies a clearing bearing reassuring traces of human ity. A crop of green maize is wav- ing luxuriantly in the breeze. Further on are fruit trees-almonds full of green nuts, standard peaches, apples. some with heavily-burdened boughs weighed down almost to earth. others clothed with fluttering gray moss; and only green with clumps of mistletoe; and under these old trees the grass is hidden in shimmering cloud of hsrebells. Presently the joy of har- vest will even penetrate the sadness of the forest. So when the sun has set, and twilight is fast creeping over the vast plain. the village appears once more. The struggling street is full of color-even after the glow of harvest fields. Old tiled roofs splashed with orange lichens rise against the darkened forest. Every step calls forth an exquisite picture. Rustic homes nestle among trees, walled gar dens of dreamy seclusion, leafy lanes only leading to the deeper leafage of the forest Nothing jarring. nothing new; only little village of old France "a gem of exquisite simplicity set in the pure gold of the corn. At little tables in the inn courtyard people are dining or playing cards in the leisure ly way that obtains in the country, while horde of mongrel dogs, vary ing from an atom faintly suggestive of 8 griffon to a sedate monster obvious ly claiming relationship to mastiff. N""NSA SeSuoiiy - anu out dLiouS tue tables and solicit scraps with eloquent eyes or gently insistent paws.
 Above the chatter of wooden soles and chatter of homeward-wending har- vest-folk there arises a rumble of heavy wheels. Up the street comes a WE gon piled high with sheaves, and drawn by two cream-colored oxen mlzzled and lowing low beneath a pouderous wooden yoke.
 O. K. MOORE.