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 blood in our veins go and come between us and the earth? I have always loved to think that in some former existence I was a vigorous vine-root, and shall be one again perhaps, during a delightful immortality. How good it would be to grow and flourish, to feel my dark velvety bunches of grapes swell and fill with sweet juices, under the warm sunshine: and it must be best of all to be eaten! Setting such speculations aside, the earth bled at every pore during this wonderful season, so that we did not know what to do with the juice of our vines. As there were not casks enough to go round, masses of grapes were heaped up in vats, without even pressing them. Father Coullemard, an old man who lived at Andries, could not dispose of his crop, and so offered his grapes at the vineyard, for thirty sous a barrel.

Imagine our feelings! In our part of the world we cannot bear to throw anything away; so, as there was nothing for it but to drink the wine on the spot, we all did our duty like men. The labors of Hercules were nothing to it, but I am afraid that the hero himself, and not Antseus, fell and touched Mother Earth!

Everybody felt cheerful and more like himself when this was over, but still there was something unpleasant,—a sort of constraint among us, and