THE HAIRY AMMOPHILA

Too Long; Didn't Read

One day in May I was walking up and down, on the look-out for anything fresh that might be taking place in the harmaslaboratory. Favier was not far off, at work in the kitchen-garden. Who is Favier? I may as well say a few words about him at once, for we shall be hearing of him again. Favier is an old soldier. He has pitched his hut of clay and branches under the African carob-trees; he has eaten Sea-urchins at Constantinople; he has shot Starlings in the Crimea, during a lull in the firing. He has seen much and remembered much. In winter, when work in the fields ends at four o’clock and the evenings are long, he puts away rake, fork, and barrow and comes and sits on the hearth-stone of the kitchen fireplace, where the billets of ilex-wood blaze merrily. He fetches out his pipe, fills it methodically with a moistened thumb and smokes it solemnly. He has been thinking of it for many a long hour; but he has abstained, for tobacco is expensive. The privation has doubled the charm; and not a puff, recurring at regular intervals, is wasted.