eaten there and then.
Afterwards, thinking better of it, she squared up to the big bad wolf,
head down, horns ready, like the brave little kid goat of Monsieur
Seguin that she was ... not that she expected to kill him--goats don't
kill wolves--but just to see if she could last out as long as
Renaude....

As the big bad wolf drew near, she with her little horns set to into
the fray.

Oh! the brave little kid goat; how she went at it with such a great
heart. A dozen times, I'll swear, Gringoire, she forced the wolf back
to catch his breath. During these brief respites, she grabbed a blade
or two of the grass that she loved so much; then, still munching,
joined the battle again.... The whole night passed like this.
Occasionally, Monsieur Seguin's kid goat looked up at the twinkling
stars in the clear sky and said to herself:

--Oh dear, I hope I can last out till the morning....

One by one the stars faded away. Blanquette intensified her charges,
while the wolf replied with his teeth. The pale daylight appeared
gradually over the horizon. A cockerel crowed hoarsely from a farm
below.

--At last! said the poor animal, who was only waiting for the morning
to come so that she could die bravely, and she laid herself down on the
ground, her beautiful white fur stained with blood.

It was then, at last, that the wolf fell on the little goat and
devoured her.

* * * * *

Goodbye, Gringoire!

The story you have heard is not of my making. If you ever come to
Provence, our tenant farmers often tell you, of _M. Seguin's kid goat_,
who fought the big bad wolf all night before he ate her in the morning.

Think about it, Gringoire, _the big bad wolf ate her in the morning._

THE STARS

_A tale from a Provencal shepherd._

When I used to be in charge of the animals on the Luberon, I was in the
pasture for many weeks with my dog Labri and the flock without seeing
another living soul. Occasionally the hermit from Mont-de-l'Ure would
pass by looking for medicinal herbs, or I might see the blackened face
of a chimney sweep from Piemont. But these were simple folk, silenced
by the solitude, having lost the taste for chit-chat, and knowing
nothing of what was going on down in the villages and towns. So, I was
truly happy, when every fortnight I heard the bells on our farm's mule
which brought my provisions, and I saw the bright little face of the
farm boy, or the red hat of old aunty Norade appe