But much as I like all this, it was not this that attracted me here.  That was the situation.  The house stands in a small garden, separated from the road by an old gnarled hedge of hazel.  It is almost on the crest of the hill on the south bank of the Marne,—­the hill that is the water-shed between the Marne and the Grand Morin.  Just here the Marne makes a wonderful loop, and is only fifteen minutes walk away from my gate, down the hill to the north.

From the lawn, on the north side of the house, I command a panorama which I have rarely seen equaled.  To me it is more beautiful than that we have so often looked at together from the terrace at Saint-Germain.  In the west the new part of Esbly climbs the hill, and from there to a hill at the northeast I have a wide view of the valley of the Marne, backed by a low line of hills which is the water-shed between the Marne and the Aisne.  Low down in the valley, at the northwest, lies lie de Villenoy, like a toy town, where the big bridge spans the Marne to carry the railroad into Meaux.  On the horizon line to the west the tall chimneys of Claye send lines of smoke into the air.  In the foreground to the north, at the foot of the hill, are the roofs of two little hamlets,—­Joncheroy and Voisins,—­and beyond them the trees that border the canal.

On the other side of the Marne the undulating hill, with its wide stretch of fields, is dotted with little villages that peep out of the trees or are silhouetted against the sky-line,—­Vignely, Trilbardou, Penchard, Monthyon, Neufmortier, Chauconin, and in the foreground to the north, in the valley, just halfway between me and Meaux, lies Mareuil-on-the-Marne, with its red roofs, gray walls, and church spire.  With a glass I can find where Chambry and Barcy are, on the slope behind Meaux, even if the trees conceal them.

But these are all little villages of which you may never have heard.  No guidebook celebrates them.  No railroad approaches them.  On clear days I can see the square tower of the cathedral at Meaux, and I have only to walk a short distance on the route nationale,—­which runs from Paris, across the top of my hill a little to the east, and thence to Meaux and on to the frontier,—­to get a profile view of it standing up above the town, quite detached, from foundation to clock-tower.

This is a rolling country of grain fields, orchards, masses of black-currant bushes, vegetable plots,—­it is a great sugar-beet country,—­and asparagus beds; for the Department of the Seine et Marne is one of the most productive in France, and every inch under cultivation.  It is what the French call un paysage riant, and I assure you, it does more than smile these lovely June mornings.  I am up every morning almost as soon as the sun, and I slip my feet into sabots, wrap myself in a big cloak, and run right on to the lawn to make sure that the panorama has not disappeared in the night.  There always lie—­too