blackthorn, the maple and the hazel, all down the valley towards the Dordogne, shows here and there a crimson leaf; and the little path is fringed with high marjoram, whose blossoms revel amidst the hot stones, and seem to drink the wine of their life from the fiery sunbeams.  Upon the burning banks of broken rock—­gray wastes sprinkled with small spurges and tufts of the fragrant southernwood, now opening its mean little flowers—­multitudes of flying grasshoppers flutter, most of them with scarlet wings, and one marvels how they can keep themselves from being baked quite dry where every stone is hot.  The lizards, which spend most of their time in the grasshoppers’ company, appear equally capable of resisting fire.  In the bed of the Alzou a species of brassica has had time since the last flood to grow up from the seed, and to spread its dark verdure in broad patches over the dry sand and pebbles.  The ravens are gone—­to Auvergne, so it is said, because they do not like hot weather.  The hawks are less difficult to please on the score of climate; they remain here all the year round, piercing the air with their melancholy cries.

I needed quiet for writing, and could not get it.  Of all boons this is the most difficult to find in France.  It can be had in Paris, where it is easy to live shut off from the world, hearing nothing save the monotonous rumble of life in the streets; but let no one talk to me about the blessed quietude of the country in France, unless it be that of the bare moor or mountain or desolate seashore.  In villages there is no escape from the clatter of tongues until everybody, excepting yourself, is asleep.  The houses are so built that wherever you may take refuge you are compelled to hear the conversation that is going on in any part of them.  In the South the necessity of listening becomes really terrible.  The men roar, and the women shriek, in their ordinary talk.  A complete stranger to such ways might easily suppose that they were engaged in a wordy battle of alarming ferocity, when they are merely discussing the pig’s measles, or the case of a cow that strayed into a field of lucern, and was found the next morning like a balloon.  It is hard for a person who needs to be quiet at times to live with such people without giving the Recording Angel a great deal of disagreeable work.

I would not have believed that so small a place as Roc-Amadour, and such a holy one, could have been so noisy if my own experience had not informed me on this subject.  Every morning at five the tailor who did duty as policeman and crier came with his drum, and, stationing himself by the town pump, which was just in front of my cottage, awoke the echoes of the gorge with a long and furious tambourinade.  While the women, in answer to this signal, were coming from all directions, carrying buckets in their hands, or copper water-pots on their heads, he unchained the pump-handle.  Now for the next two hours the strident cries of the exasperated pump, and the screaming