oung person).

[Illustration: "WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW"]

I have a vague but pleasant impression of that year. Its weathers,
its changing seasons, its severe frosts, with Sunday skatings on the
dangerous canals, St.-Ouen and De l'Ourcq; its genial spring, all
convolvulus and gobeas, and early almond blossom and later
horse-chestnut spikes, and more lime and syringa than ever; its warm
soft summer and the ever-delightful school of notation by the Isle
of Swans.

This particular temptation led us into trouble. We would rise before
dawn, Barty and Jolivet and I, and let ourselves over the wall and
run the two miles, and get a heavenly swim and a promise of silence
for a franc apiece; and run back again and jump into bed a few
minutes before the five-o'clock bell rang the reveille.

But we did this once too often--for M. Dumollard had been looking at
Venus with his telescope (I _think_ it was Venus) one morning before
sunrise, and spied us out _en flagrant delit_; perhaps with that
very telescope. Anyhow, he pounced on us when we came back. And our
punishment would have been extremely harsh but for Barty, who turned
it all into a joke.

After breakfast M. Merovee pronounced a very severe sentence on us
under the acacia. I forget what it was--but his manner was very
short and dignified, and he walked away very stiffly towards the
door of the etude. Barty ran after him without noise, and just
touching his shoulders with the tips of his fingers, cleared him at
a bound from behind, as one clears a post.

M. Merovee, in a _real_ rage this time, forgot his dignity, and
pursued him all over the school--through open windows and back
again--into his own garden (Tusculum)--over trellis railings--all
along the top of a wall--and finally, quite blown out, sat down on
the edge of the tank: the whole school was in fits by this time,
even M. Dumollard--and at last Merovee began to laugh too. So the
thing had to be forgiven--but only that once!

Once also, that year, but in the winter, a great compliment was paid
to la perfide Albion in the persons of MM. Josselin et Maurice,
which I cannot help recording with a little complacency.

On a Thursday walk in the Bois de Boulogne a boy called out "A bas
Dumollard!" in a falsetto squeak. Dumollard, who was on duty that
walk, was furious, of course--but he couldn't identify the boy by
the sound of his voice. He made his complaint to M. Merovee--and
next morning, after prayers, Merovee ca