crystal,
glittering in the rays of a winter's sun with all the prismatic
brilliancy of the diamond. The damp, rich soil of the arable land is
laid down in furrows, where hides the timid hare in her form, or the
speckled partridge runs merrily. Here and there is heard the melancholy
tinkling of the sheep-bell hanging from the neck of some important
leader of the numerous flocks scattered over the verdant heights and
turfy valleys of the neighbourhood; while, carefully wrapped in his dark
gray cloak, the shepherd, seated under shelter of those knotted trunks
and interlaced branches, chants his cheerful lay, while his fingers are
busily employed weaving a basket of rushes.

Occasionally a more animated scene presents itself; distant echo gives
out the faint sound of the hunting-horn, and the cry of hounds; suddenly
a frightened deer bursts from the neighbouring forest, stands for a few
seconds in terrified alarm upon the frozen plain, then darts onward, and
is quickly lost amid the thickets on the opposite side. The trampling of
horses, the barking of dogs, are rapidly brought nearer by the breeze;
and now, in their turn, a pack of dogs with brown and tawny-spotted
skins issue from the brushwood from which the frightened deer but just
now came; they run eagerly over the sterile ground, the fallow fields,
with noses closely pointed to the ground they pursue with loud cries the
traces left by the flying deer. At their heels come the hunters in their
scarlet coats, bending over the necks of their swift steeds; they
encourage their dogs by their voices mingled with the notes of the horn.
Swift as lightning the brilliant cortege passes on; the noise
decreases; by degrees all is still; dogs, horses, and huntsmen are lost
in the tangled mazes of the forest, where the frightened stag had sought
and found a hiding-place. Then peace and calm resumed their reign; and
the profound stillness of these vast plains was interrupted only by the
monotonous song of the shepherd.

These sights,--these rustic views abounded in the environs of the
village of Bouqueval, which, spite of its proximity to Paris, was
situated in a sort of desert, to which there was no approach except by
cross-roads. Concealed during the summer among the trees, like a nest
amid the sheltering foliage, the farm which had become the home of the
poor Goualeuse was now utterly bereft of its leafy screen, and entirely
exposed to view. The course of the little river, now