the habit of taking long and solitary excursions.
During one of these I met with an adventure.

I had spent the morning on the skirt of a
forest. Towards noon I entered it, rested awhile,
then started again. Ere long I came to a spot
where many avenues—seven, I believe—met,
and whence they radiated like the points of a star.
In the middle of this open space rose a tall and
slender pyramid, with a gilt ball on the top.
This was the very heart of the forest. Not a
soul was visible; not a stately deer or a frightened
hare disturbed the silence of the spot. The
solemn trees rose around me, leaving a
circular roof of sky above, then they divided into
their long seven lonely alleys. It was grand and
very fine, but it was also very depressing. I sat
down on the lowest of the three steps, above
which rose the pyramid, a picture of the past
flitting before me.

Here, if tradition spoke true, often came that
gay hunter, Francis the First, and after him his
son Henri, both with the same lady huntress.
Perhaps she was only a sort of prime minister
after all, as some historians declare. Tastes
vary so. Some kings like a pale Cardinal de
Richelieu, and others (like these two) a Diana of
Poitiers, fair-haired and blue-eyed, who, if she
now and then sat to Primaticio as the goddess
Flora, also caused that haughty medal to be
struck, in which she appears trampling Love
under her feet, with the imperious motto, "I
have conquered the conqueror of all." But, oh!
what din, what tumult, what halloing of hounds
and trampling of horses there was in those
days, and how sadly quiet these good people
were all now. Ages pass, and Diana is
replaced by Fontanges, who ties up her hair
with a wonderful ribbon that sends the world
mad, or we see that pretty Madame d'Etiolles
in this very forest lying in wait for a king's
heart, and dying later—rare honour!—in
Versailles, under the name of Madame de
Pompadour; but other variety we must not
expect.

I got tired of these phantoms as I sat thus at
the base of the pyramid. I got tired, too, of
those endless avenues stretching for ever away
before me; so I rose and struck into one, walking
fast, yet glancing right and left in search of
botanical treasures. I found none, but saw a strange
abundance of a pale variety of the Solanum tribe.
I gathered a bunch, then a few ferns, and,
wearied with my profitless day, I quickened my
pace, to get out of the forest before nightfall.

I must have been very near the outskirt when
my adventure began. I saw nothing, but I
heard, in a thicket on my right hand, a low,
plaintive, and not unmelodious whistle. I stood
still to listen, and it ceased. Presently it was
repeated, and something gliding in the grass
near me made it move and rustle. I looked, but
the creature, if it were one, was already gone
The whistle sounded again, but at some distance
from me; and further away, too, the motion I
had already perceived was repeated. It was too
dark already for me to distinguish more than
that motion of the grass, and it told me nothing.
Again the whistle was renewed, but so far away
or so faintly that I could scarcely hear it. Then
it ceased, or I heard it no more.

I was perplexed. I had seen nothing, neither
human being, nor beast, nor bird. The trees
were scarce, the thickets were stunted, the grass
was poor and thin, and a few moss-covered
rocks which were scattered about were too low
to conceal even a child. Yet some one had
been near me, and something had passed
within my reach, which was not, however, within
my knowledge. I was armed with a stout
stick. I beat the bushes, and only startled a
little harmless bird from its nest. I went round
the rocks to explore them, and found a few
mosses, which I put in my tin box; and this
was the sole result of my quest. It was useless
to pursue it; the greyness of evening was stealing
on me fast, and the country before me looked
flat and desolate.

I am not sure that I ought to go on, and tell
the reader what follows. I have called it an
adventure, and many will think that it scarcely
deserves the name. But I believe that adventures
are half the time productions of our own mood.
I believe they spring from something within us,
which, if I may so speak, calls them into existence,
as the voice of the enchanter wakens
spirits in the old tales of sorcery. Some people
cannot have adventures- there is no sympathy
between the spirit of adventure and them; and
others cannot stir but, lo! some adventure starts
up, like the little wicked diablotin in the French
toy. I belong to neither class, and have neither
more nor less than my share of this doubtful
commodity; but the adventurous mood was on
me this day, and would not let me rest.

I walked on, only thinking of reaching some
village by nightfall, when I heard again the low
whistle I had heard in the forest. This time it
came from some distance, and it stole so faintly
over the silent plain that, but for the evening
stillness, I could not have heard it at all. I saw
no one, but a low hedge which straggled through
the fields might conceal a man easily. I was
walking in the opposite direction to this. I
altered my course at once. I soon reached the
hedge, but saw no token of the whistler; no
great marvel after all. The path in which I now
found myself was a narrow winding one, which
delved down to a little valley. Here, as I soon
perceived, clustered a few houses, where lights
were already twinkling like mild glowworms.

The first of these houses I entered. The door
was open, so I was spared the trouble of knocking.
In my best French I bade its tenant a good
evening, and asked for a drink, and the way to an
inn, if such a thing was to be found in the vicinity.
A man looked up from the fireplace, where he
was stirring something in an iron pot. He
returned my salutation, and civilly replied that I
could have a drink of milk if I pleased, and that
the nearest inn was a league off. I was tired to
death, and asked if I might rest awhile.

"Certainly, sir," replied the man, rising to