walled, red-roofed village, beside a tiny shop
gloriously adorned with a gilt bull's head. The butcher's wife came out.
"_Bonjour_, Monsieur Paragot."

"_Bonjour_, Madame Jolivet, have you a nice fatted calf for this young
Prodigal from Paris? If you haven't, we can do with four kilos of good
beef."

And the result of ten minutes talk was a great lump of raw meat, badly
wrapped in newspaper, which Paragot, careless of my Paris clothes,
thrust on my knees, while he continued to drive Bucephale. I dropped the
beef into the back of the cart. Paragot shook his head.

"To-morrow, my son, you shall be clothed in humility and shall clean out
the cow pen."

"I should prefer to accept your original invitation, Master," said I,
"and help with the corn."

For Paragot, besides Bucephale and cows and ducks and pigs and fowls and
a meadow or two, possessed a patch of cornfield of which he was
passionately proud. He had sown it himself that spring and now was
harvest. He pointed to it with his whip as soon as we came in sight of
the farm.

"_My_ corn, my little Asticot. It is marvellous, eh? Who says that
Berzelius Nibbidard Paragot can't make things grow? I was born to it.
_Nom de Dieu_ I could make anything grow. I could plant your palette and
it would come up a landscape. And _sacre mille cochons_, I have done the
most miraculous thing of all. I am the father of a human being, a real
live human being, my son. He is small as yet," he added apologetically,
"but still he is alive. He has teeth, Asticot. It is the most remarkable
thing in this astonishing universe."

The dim form of a woman standing with a child in her arms in front of a
group of farm buildings across the fields to the right, gradually grew
into the familiar figure of my dear Blanquette. She came down the road
to meet us, her broad homely face beaming with gladness and in her eyes
a new light of welcome. Narcisse trotted at her heels. The rheumatism of
advancing years gave him a distinguished gait.

We sprang from the cart. Bucephale left to himself regarded the family
meeting with a grandfatherly air, until an earth-coloured nondescript
emerged from the ground and led him off towards the house. After our
embraces, we followed, Paragot dancing the delighted infant, Blanquette
with her great motherly arm around my shoulders, and Narcisse soberly
sniffing for adventure, after the manner of elderly dogs.

"Do you remember, Asticot?" said Blanquette. "Four of us