I was presently seated at a long table with about a dozen others of both sexes, all relatives or old friends.  They belonged to the small town of Severac, and had driven in two queer countrified vehicles about fifteen miles in order to spend a happy day at Les Vignes.  They were terribly noisy, but boundlessly good-natured.  Not only was I made to share their leg of mutton, but also the champagne which they had brought with them.  The modest lunch that I had expected became a veritable feast, and having been entangled in the convivial meshes, I had to stay until the end of it all.  The experience was worth something as a study of provincial life and manners.  These people—­husbands and wives and friends—­had come out with the determination to enjoy themselves, and their enjoyment was not merely hearty; it was hurricane-like.  There were moments when pieces of bread and green almonds were flying across the table, and the noise of voices was so terrific that the quiet hostess looked in at the door with a scared expression which made me think she was wondering how much longer the roof would be able to remain in its right place.  Then, the jokes that were exchanged over the table were as broad as the humour of the South is broad.  I felt sorry for the women, but quite unnecessarily.  Although the local colour was not refined, human nature present was frank, hospitable, and irresistibly warm-hearted.  The vulgarity of the party was of the unselfish sort, and therefore amusing.  The enjoyment of each was the enjoyment of all; and even when the tempest of humour was at its height, not a word was said that was intended to be offensive.  As a compliment to me, they all rose to their feet, glasses in hand, and the hostess was again startled by a mighty rush of sound repeating the words ‘Vive l’Angleterre!’ far up and down the valley.

Instead of going on to La Malene that afternoon, as I had intended, I went after crayfish with one of the members of this jovial party, who had brought with him the necessary tackle for the sport.  There are various ways of catching crayfish; but in this district the favourite method is the following:  Small wire hoops, about a foot in diameter, are covered with netting strained nearly tight, and to this pieces of liver or other meat are tied.  A cord a few yards long, fastened to the centre of the netting, completes the tackle.  The baited snare is thrown into the stream, not far from the bank, and generally where the bottom is strewn with stones.  No more art is needed.  The crayfish, supposing them to be in the humour to eat, soon smell the meat or divine its presence, and, coming forth from their lairs beneath the stones, make towards the lure with greedy alacrity.  Their movements can be generally watched, for although they are not delicate feeders, they are as difficult as Chinamen to please in the matter of water, and are only to be found in very clear streams.  As is the case with their congeners—­the sea