"Watch the little ducks," says Blaire, "going along the
communication trench."
We watch a single file of all-golden ducklings go past--still almost
eggs on feet--their big heads pulling their little lame bodies along
by the string of their necks, and that quickly. From his corner, the
big dog follows them also with his deeply dark eye, on which the
slanting sun has shaped a fine tawny ring.
Beyond this rustic yard and over the scalloping of the low wall, the
orchard reveals itself, where a green carpet, moist and thick,
covers the rich soil and is topped by a screen of foliage with a
garniture of blossom, some white as statuary, others pied and glossy
as knots in neckties. Beyond again is the meadow, where the shadowed
poplars throw shafts of dark or golden green. Still farther again is
a square patch of upstanding hops, followed by a patch of cabbages,
sitting on the ground and dressed in line. In the sunshine of air
and of earth we hear the bees, as they work and make music (in
deference to the poets), and the cricket which, in defiance of the
fable, sings with no humility and fills Space by himself.
Over yonder, there falls eddying from a poplar's peak a magpie--half
white, half black, like a shred of partly-burned paper.
The soldiers outstretch themselves luxuriously on the stone bench,
their eyes half closed, and bask in the sunshine that warms the
basin of the big yard till it is like a bath.
"That's seventeen days we've been here! After thinking we were going
away day after day!"
"One never knows," said Paradis, wagging his head and smacking his
lips.
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