* * * * *

Rocks reach far overhead, dazzlingly white where the sunbeams strike them, and below is a green line of narrow valley.  A tinkling of bells comes from the stony sides of the gorge, where sheep are browsing the scant herbage and young shoots of southern-wood; and from the curving fillet of meadow, where the grass seems to grow while the eye watches it, rises the shrill little song of the stream hurrying over its yellow bed, which may be dry again to-morrow.  This Alzou is no more to be depended upon than a coquette.  After a period of drought, a storm that has passed away hours ago will cause it suddenly to come hissing down over the dry stones; but the next day no trace of the flow may be found save a few pools.  Or it may grow to a torrent, even a river, that in its wild career scoffs at banks, and spreads devastation through the valley.

It is April, and the nightingales, the swallows, the flowers, the bees, and the kids, whose trembling voices are heard all about the rocks, tell me that the spring has come.  I cannot rest in my cottage on the side of the gorge, not even on the balcony that seems to hang in the air over the depth; the sounds from the valley, especially those that the imagination hears, are too enticing.

Upon a high ledge of rock to which I have climbed, not without some unpleasant qualms, I stretch myself out upon a strip of short turf sprinkled with the flowers of the white rock-rose and bordered with candy-tuft, and try to drive out of mind the only disagreeable thought I have at this moment—­that of getting down to the path, where I was safe.  The worst part of climbing precipitous places is not the going up, but the coming down.  Not a human being or dwelling is in sight, so that I can contemplate the wildness of the scene to my mind’s content.  But a very hoarse voice not far above tells me that I am not alone.  A raven perched upon a jutting piece of rock, that curiously resembles some monstrous animal, is watching me, and he looks a very crafty old bird who could speak either French or English if he liked.  Presently he flaps heavily off to the opposite side of the gorge, and fetches his wife.  They fly over me almost within gunshot, going round and round, expressing an opinion or sentiment with an occasional croak, but apparently quite willing to make their dinner-hour suit my convenience.  Do they suppose that I have really taken the trouble to climb up here to die out of the world’s way and the sight of my fellow-creatures, like that very unearthly poet whose story Shelley has written?  Do they think that they are going to make a hearty meal upon me this evening or to-morrow morning?  I remain quite still, pleased at the thought of cheating the greedy, croaking scavengers of Nature, and hoping that they will grow bold enough to settle at length somewhere near me.  But they are too suspicious; perhaps with their superior sight they note the blinking of my eyes as I look upwards at the dazzling sky, or instinct may tell them that I am not lying down after the manner of a dying animal.  Their patience is more than a match for mine, and so I come down from my ledge and make my way back to my cottage before the pink blush of evening has faded from the rocks.