We are near that sweet season of fresh green, of which the poets of the sixteenth century sang with so much feeling: 

          Now the gladsome month of May
          All things newly doth array;
          Fairest lady, let me too
          In thy love my life renew.

The chirping of the sparrows calls me:  they claim the crumbs I scatter to them every morning.  I open my window, and the prospect of roofs opens out before me in all its splendor.

He who has lived only on a first floor has no idea of the picturesque variety of such a view.  He has never contemplated these tile-colored heights which intersect each other; he has not followed with his eyes these gutter-valleys, where the fresh verdure of the attic gardens waves, the deep shadows which evening spreads over the slated slopes, and the sparkling of windows which the setting sun has kindled to a blaze of fire.  He has not studied the flora of these Alps of civilization, carpeted by lichens and mosses; he is not acquainted with the myriad inhabitants that people them, from the microscopic insect to the domestic cat—­that reynard of the roofs who is always on the prowl, or in ambush; he has not witnessed the thousand aspects of a clear or a cloudy sky; nor the thousand effects of light, that make these upper regions a theatre with ever-changing scenes!  How many times have my days of leisure passed away in contemplating this wonderful sight; in discovering its darker or brighter episodes; in seeking, in short, in this unknown world for the impressions of travel that wealthy tourists look for lower!

Nine o’clock.—­But why, then, have not my winged neighbors picked up the crumbs I have scattered for them before my window?  I see them fly away, come back, perch upon the ledges of the windows, and chirp at the sight of the feast they are usually so ready to devour!  It is not my presence that frightens them; I have accustomed them to eat out of my hand.  Then, why this fearful suspense?  In vain I look around:  the roof is clear, the windows near are closed.  I crumble the bread that remains from my breakfast to attract them by an ampler feast.  Their chirpings increase, they bend down their heads, the boldest approach upon the wing, but without daring to alight.

Come, come, my sparrows are the victims of one of the foolish panics which make the funds fall at the Bourse!  It is plain that birds are not more reasonable than men!

With this reflection I was about to shut my window, when suddenly I perceived, in a spot of sunshine on my right, the shadow of two pricked-up ears; then a paw advanced, then the head of a tabby-cat showed itself at the corner of the gutter.  The cunning fellow was lying there in wait, hoping the crumbs would bring him some game.

And I had accused my guests of cowardice!  I was so sure that no danger could menace them!  I thought I had looked well everywhere!  I had only forgotten the corner behind me!