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 or good-looking, of my sons who hardly seem to belong to me, with whom I have nothing in common:—of the faithlessness and folly of those around us, of our poor France torn by civil wars and religious persecutions; of my works of art scattered, life itself a handful of ashes, soon to be blown away by the breath of the Destroyer.—I put my face close up against the oak-tree, and lay there weeping quietly all among the big roots which cradled me like a father's arms; and I felt that he listened, and consoled me, for when, many hours later, I awoke, I found myself snoring with my nose in a tuft of moss, with nothing remaining of my troubles but a sore feeling in my heart, and a slight cramp in the calf of my leg.

The sun was just rising, and the tree above me was so full of birds that it dripped with their singing like a ripe bunch of grapes. The robin, the linnet, and my special favorite, the thrush, sang as if to bursting.—I like Master Thrush because he does not care for any weather, is the first to begin singing, and the last to stop, and like me, is always in a good humor.—They had all passed safely through the dangers of the night, which darkens their little lives every twenty-four hours, but as soon as the curtain begins to rise, and the first ray of dawn puts fresh color into life—Twee-ee, twee, twee,