How it interests e'en a beginner
(Or _tiro_) like dear little Ned!
Is he listening? As I am a sinner,
He's asleep--he is wagging his head.
Wake up! I'll go home to my dinner,
And you to your bed.
The boundless ineffable prairie;
The splendour of mountain and lake,
With their hues that seem ever to vary;
The mighty pine-forests which shake
In the wind, and in which the unwary
May tread on a snake;
And this wold, with its heathery garment,
Are themes undeniably great.
But--although there is not any harm in't--
It's perhaps little good to dilate
On their charms to a dull little varmint
Of seven or eight.
TARTARIN DE TARASCON
[Sidenote: _Daudet_]
At the time of which I am speaking, Tartarin of Tarascon was not the
Tartarin that he is to-day, the great Tartarin of Tarascon, so popular
throughout the South of France. However--even then--he was already king
of Tarascon.
Let me tell you whence this kingship.
You must know, first, that every one there is a huntsman, from the
greatest to the smallest.
So, every Sunday morning, Tarascon takes arms and leaves the walls,
game-bag on the back, gun on the shoulder, with a commotion of dogs,
ferrets, trumpets, and hunting-horns. It is a superb sight.
Unfortunately, game is wanting, absolutely wanting.
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