ooping heads,
load the air with such delightful odours--the whole forest, in short,
seems so refreshed and full of life, that every one hails their
approach, the toil-worn peasant breathes without complaint the sultry
air, and observes with pleasure the dark and lowering clouds gathering
in the far horizon.

From the mountains, those huge ladders of granite that God has planted
upon the earth, as if to invite ungrateful man to come nearer to him,
descend many a stream and dancing rill of pure and crystal waters. No
part of France can be said to be more salubrious. "Centenarians" are by
no means uncommon, and a patriarch of that age may be found in several
families.

When Sunday comes, always a _jour de fete_ as well as a day of prayer,
it is very pleasing to see one of these venerable men, dressed in his
best clothes, walking to church at the head of his children,
grand-children, and great grand-children. Long and of snowy whiteness is
his hair, and glossy white as threads of purest silver is his beard--his
hat, of quaker broadness in the brim, is generally encircled, in the
early days of Spring, with a wreath of the common primrose, and his dark
cloth mantle, of home-spun fabric, hangs gracefully on his shoulders,
showing underneath it the dark red sash that girds his still healthy and
vigorous frame. Tall and grave, erect and majestic as the oaks of their
native forests, these patriarchs bespeak every one's respect, and when
looking on them you might imagine they were men of another age, a
generation of by-gone years, you might fancy them some ancient Druids
that have escaped from their dusty tombs, from centuries of night, to
tread once more the pathways of this planet.

And the women, heaven and earth! how sweetly pretty, how amiable and
adorable; and such eyes, dark and lustrous!--full of witchcraft, burning
and humid as an April sun after a shower. Some there are, also, of
pensive blue, pregnant with promises, soft and almond-shaped, like the
divine eyes of the Italian Cenci. Supple as the young and slender
branches of willow, are these divinities, fresh as new opened tulips,
and brisk and gay as the golden-speckled trout in the sparkling current.
In their charms is found a terrestrial paradise, a compound of delicious
qualities which intoxicate the senses, hook the heart, and like the bite
of the Sicilian tarantella, steep the loved one in delirium.

Yes, the women of Le Morvan are lovely, ardent, and tender-