Modern Prose And Poetry; For Secondary Schools | Page 4

as the most exquisite of
English streams.
The thousands of workaday souls who pass this spot daily in their whirl
out and in the great city may catch all these glimpses of shade and
sunlight over the edges of their journals, and any one of them living
near the city's centre, with a stout pair of legs in his knickerbockers and
the breath of the morning in his heart, can reach it afoot any day before
breakfast; and yet not one in a hundred knows that this ideal nook
exists.
Even this small percentage would be apt to tell of the delights of
Devonshire and of the charm of the upper Thames, with its tall rushes
and low-thatched houses and quaint bridges, as if the picturesque ended
there; forgetting that right here at home there wanders many a stream
with its breast all silver that the trees courtesy to as it sings through
meadows waist-high in lush grass,--as exquisite a picture as can be
found this beautiful land over.
So, this being an old tramping-ground of mine, I have left the station
with its noise and dust behind me this lovely morning in June, have
stopped long enough to twist a bunch of sweet peas through the garden
fence, and am standing on the bank waiting for some sign of life at
Madame Laguerre's. I discover that there is no boat on my side of the
stream. But that is of no moment. On the other side, within a biscuit's
toss, so narrow is it, there are two boats; and on the landing-wharf,
which is only a few planks wide, supporting a tumble-down flight of
steps leading to a vine-covered terrace above, rest the oars.
I lay my traps down on the bank and begin at the top of my voice:--
"Madame Laguerre! Madame Laguerre! Send Lucette with the boat."
For a long time there is no response. A young girl drawing water a
short distance below, hearing my cries, says she will come; and some
children above, who know me, begin paddling over. I decline them all.
Experience tells me it is better to wait for madame.

In a few minutes she pushes aside the leaves, peers through, and calls
out:--
"Ah! it is that horrible painter. Go away! I have nothing for you. You
are hungry again that you come?"
"Very, madame. Where is Lucette?"
"Lucette! Lucette! It is always Lucette. Lu-c-e-t-t-e!" This in a shrill
key. "It is the painter. Come quick."
I have known Lucette for years, even when she was a barefooted little
tangle-hair, peeping at me with her great brown eyes from beneath her
ragged straw hat. She wears high-heeled slippers now, and sometimes
on Sundays dainty silk stockings, and her hair is braided down her back,
little French Marguérite that she is, and her hat is never ragged any
more, nor her hair tangled. Her eyes, though, are still the same velvety,
half-drooping eyes, always opening and shutting and never still.
As she springs into the boat and pulls towards me I note how round and
trim she is, and before we have landed at Madame Laguerre's feet I
have counted up Lucette's birthdays,--those that I know myself,--and
find to my surprise that she must be eighteen. We have always been the
best of friends, Lucette and I, ever since she looked over my shoulder
years ago and watched me dot in the outlines of her boat, with her dog
Mustif sitting demurely in the bow.
Madame, her mother, begins again:--
"Do you know that it is Saturday that you come again to bother? Now it
will be a filet, of course, with mushrooms and tomato salad; and there
are no mushrooms, and no tomatoes, and nothing. You are horrible.
Then, when I get it ready, you say you will come at three. 'Yes,
madame; at three,'--mimicking me,--'sure, very sure.' But it is four, five,
o'clock--and then everything is burned up waiting. Ah! I know you."
This goes on always, and has for years. Presently she softens, for she is
the most tender-hearted of women, and would do anything in the world

to please me.
"But, then, you will be tired, and of course you must have something. I
remember now there is a chicken. How will the chicken do? Oh, the
chicken it is lovely, charmant. And some pease--fresh. Monsieur
picked them himself this morning. And some Roquefort, with an olive.
Ah! You leave it to me; but at three--no later--not one minute. _Sacré!
Vous êtes le diable!_"
As we walk under the arbor and by the great trees, towards the cottage,
Lucette following with the oars, I inquire after monsieur, and find that
he is in the city, and very well and very busy, and will return at
sundown. He has a shop