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Begbie, Harold, 1871-1929

"The Bed-Book of Happiness"


However stupid animals may be, in the end they had become wary.
For five leagues round Tarascon warrens are empty, nests deserted. Not a
thrush, not a quail, not the least little rabbit, not the smallest
leveret.
And yet these pretty Tarascon hillocks are very tempting, perfumed with
myrtle, lavender, and rosemary; and these fine muscat grapes, swollen
with sweetness, which grow by the side of the Rhone, extremely
appetising too--yes, but there is Tarascon behind, and in the little
world of fur and feather Tarascon has an evil fame. The birds of passage
themselves have marked it with a big cross on their maps of the route,
and when the wild-ducks, descending towards Camargue in long triangles,
see the steeples of the town in the distance, the leader screams at the
top of his lungs, "There is Tarascon!--There is Tarascon!" and the whole
flight turns.
In short, as far as game is concerned, only one old rogue of a hare
remains, who has escaped by some miracle from the September massacres of
the Tarasconners, and who insists on living there. In Tarascon this hare
is well known. They have given him a name. He is called "The Express."
It is known that his form is in M. Bompard's ground--which, by the way,
has doubled and even trebled its price--but so far no one has been able
to get at it.


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