rm-yards were filled with strange looking
traps, gray, high, lean, crooked, like long clawed creatures from the
depths of the sea. And each family, with the youngsters in front, and the
grown up ones behind, came to the assembly with tranquil steps, smiling
countenances, and open hands, big hands, red and bony, accustomed to work
and apparently tired of their temporary rest.

A tumbler played on a trumpet. The barrel-organ accompanying the wooden
horses sent through the air its shrill jerky notes. The lottery-wheel
made a whirring sound like that of cloth being torn, and every moment the
crack of the rifle could be heard. And the slowly moving throng passed on
quietly in front of the booths after the fashion of paste in a fluid
condition, with the motions of a flock of sheep and the awkwardness of
heavy animals rushing along at haphazard.

The girls, holding one another's arms, in groups of six or eight, kept
bawling out songs; the young men followed them making jokes, with their
caps over their ears, and their blouses stiffened with starch, swollen
out like blue balloons.

The whole country-side was there--masters, laboring men, and
women-servants.

Old Amable himself, wearing his old-fashioned green frock-coat, had
wished to see the assembly, for he never failed to attend on such an
occasion.

He looked at the lotteries, stopped in front of the shooting galleries to
criticise the shots, and interested himself specially in a very simple
game, which consisted in throwing a big wooden ball into the open mouth
of a mannikin carved and painted on a board.

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Daddy Malivoire, who
exclaimed:

"Ha, daddy! Come and have a glass of spirits."

And they sat down before the table of a rustic inn placed in the open
air.

They drank one glass of spirits, then two, then three; and old Amable
once more wandered through the assembly. His thoughts became slightly
confused, he smiled without knowing why, he smiled in front of the
lotteries, in front of the wooden horses, and especially in front of the
killing game. He remained there a long time, filled with delight when he
saw a holidaymaker knocking down the gendarme or the cure, two
authorities which he instinctively distrusted. Then he went back to the
inn, and drank a glass of cider to cool himself. It was late, night came
on. A neighbor came to warn him:

"You'll get back home late for the stew, daddy."

Then he set out on