Nul ne pourrait dire la paix qui enveloppait cette cure de campagne. La paroisse était petite, honnête moyennement, facile à vivre, habituée au vieux prêtre qui la dirigeait depuis trente ans. Le bourg finissait au presbytère. Le presbytère touchait aux prés en pente qui s’en allaient vers la rivière, et d’où montait, à la saison chaude, toute la chanson de la terre mêlée au parfum des herbes. Derrière la maison trop grande, un potager entamait le pré. Le premier rayon de soleil était pour lui, et le dernier de même. On y voyait des cerises dès le mois de mai, des groseilles souvent plus tôt, et, une semaine avant l’Assomption, le plus souvent, on ne pouvait passer à cent mètres de là sans respirer, entre les haies, le parfum lourd des melons mûrissants.

The peace that enveloped this country presbytery was indescribable. The parish was small, middling honest, easy-going, accustomed to the priest that had directed it for thirty years. The village ended at the presbytery, which stood on the border of the meadows sloping toward the river, from which mounted, during the hot season, the varied song of the fields mingled with the perfume of the grasses. Behind the rambling old house, a vegetable-garden encroached upon the meadow. It caught the first ray of sunshine, and held the last. Cherries might be seen there in May, and gooseberries even earlier, and usually a week before Assumption one could not pass within a hundred yards of the garden without inhaling between the hedges the heavy perfume of ripening melons.

No words could convey an adequate idea of the atmosphere of peace which enveloped the country priest of whom I am to write. His parish was small, fairly moral, comfortably off, and accustomed to the ways of the old curate who had presided over it for thirty years.

The village ended with the rectory. Beyond this, meadows sloped gently away to the river, and from them in summer rose the songs of birds mingled with the perfume of growing plants. Just behind the house was a garden, bordering the meadows. The first rays of the sun fell upon it, the last ones also.

One could find cherries there by the month of May, and gooseberries much earlier; while a week before the Assumption, usually, one could not pass within a hundred yards of the spot without breathing the heavy perfume of ripening melons.

Nothing can describe the peace that surrounded the country parsonage. The parish was small, moderately honest, prosperous, and was used to the old priest, who had ruled it for thirty years. The town ended at the parsonage, and there began meadows which sloped down to the river and were filled in summer with the perfume of flowers and all the music of the earth. Behind the great house a kitchen-garden encroached on the meadow. The first ray of the sun was for it, and so was the last. Here the cherries ripened in May, and the currants often earlier, and a week before Assumption, usually, you could not pass within a hundred feet without breathing among the hedges the heavy odor of the melons.

Santa is a sleepy little village in Spain. A priest, who was a very old man, lived in the village. His cottage was near the church and right in the middle of a big orchard.

Santa is a small village in Spain. A kind, old priest lived in that village. He had a small house near the church. The house was in the middle of an orchard, and there were many fruit trees in the orchard.

N’allez pas croire que le curé de Saint-Philémon fût gourmand : il avait l’âge où l’appétit n’est qu’un souvenir, le dos voûté, la face ridée, deux petits yeux gris dont l’un ne voyait plus, des lunettes rondes et une oreille si dure qu’il fallait faire le tour et changer de côté quand on l’abordait par là. Ah ! Seigneur, non, il ne mangeait pas tous les fruits de son verger ! Les gamins en volaient leur grande part, et surtout les oiseaux : les merles qui vivaient là toute l’année grassement, et chantaient en retour de tout leur mieux ; les loriots, jolis passants qui les aidaient pendant les semaines de grande abondance, et les moineaux, et les fauvettes de tout plumage, et les mésanges, espèce pullulante et vorace, touffes de plumes grosses comme un doigt, pendues aux branches, tournant, grimpant, piquant un grain de raisin, égratignant une poire, vraies bêtes de rapine enfin, qui ne savent donner en récompense qu’un petit cri aigre comme un coup de scie. Même pour elles, la vieillesse avait rendu indulgent le curé de Saint-Philémon. « Les bêtes ne se corrigent pas, disait-il ; si je leur en voulais de ne pas changer, à combien de mes paroissiens devrais-je en vouloir aussi ! » Et il se contentait de frapper ses mains l’une contre l’autre, en entrant dans son verger, afin de ne pas être témoin de trop fortes déprédations.

Alors, c’était une levée d’ailes, comme si toutes les fleurs des herbes folles, coupées par un grand vent, s’étaient mises à voler des grises, des blanches, des jaunes, des bigarrées ; une fuite légère, un froissement de feuilles, et puis la paix, pour cinq minutes. Mais quelles minutes ! Songez qu’il n’y avait pas une usine dans le village, pas un métier ou un marteau de forge, et que le bruit des hommes, de leurs chevaux et de leurs bœufs, répandus à travers les campagnes, isolés, invisibles, se fondait et mourait dans le frémissement de l’air qui montait tout le jour de la terre chauffée. Les moulins étaient inconnus, les routes peu fréquentées, les chemins de fer extrêmement loin. Si le repentir de ces dévaliseurs de jardin avait duré, l’abbé se serait endormi de silence sur son bréviaire.

Heureusement, le retour était prompt ; un moineau donnait l’exemple, un geai suivait : la volière au complet se remettait à l’œuvre. Et l’abbé pouvait passer et repasser, fermer son livre, ou l’ouvrir, murmurer : « Ils ne me laisseront pas une graine, cette année. » C’était fini : aucun oiseau ne quittait sa proie, pas plus que s’il se fût agi d’un poirier taillé en cône, de feuille épaisse, et se balançant en mesure sur le sable de l’allée.

Les oiseaux devinent que ceux qui se plaignent n’agissent pas. Chaque printemps, ils nichaient autour de la cure de Saint-Philémon en plus grand nombre que partout ailleurs. Les meilleures places étaient vite occupées : les creux des arbres, les trous des murs, les fourches à trois branches des pommiers ou des charmes, et l’on voyait un bec brun, comme une pointe d’épée, sortir d’une poignée de gros foin entre tous les chevrons du toit. Une année que tout était pris, je suppose, une mésange dans l’embarras avisa cette fente régulière, protégée par une planchette, qui s’enfonçait dans l’épaisseur des moellons, à droite de la porte d’entrée du presbytère ; elle s’y glissa, revint satisfaite de l’exploration, apporta des matériaux et bâtit le nid, sans rien négliger de ce qui devait le tenir chaud, ni la plume, ni le crin, ni la laine, ni les écailles de lichen qui couvrent les vieux bois.

But my readers must not think that the parish priest of St. Philemon was a high liver. He was at the age when the appetite is but a memory; his back was bent, his face wrinkled, and he could no longer see out of one of his little gray eyes. He wore large round spectacles, and he was so hard of hearing in one ear, that one had to go around and change sides in case one came upon him from that direction. No! No! The good priest did not eat all the fruit in his orchard! The boys stole their share of it, and also the birds—the blackbirds which lived there comfortably all the season, and sang at the tops of their voices on their return; the goldfinches, pretty travellers, assisted them during the weeks of great abundance. Then there were sparrows, linnets of all kinds, and tomtits, a noisy, swarming lot, little tufts of feathers no bigger than your thumb, hanging from branches, turning, climbing, pecking at a grapeseed, scratching a pear, genuine birds of plunder in short, whose only thanks was a sharp little cry like the rasp of a saw. But even toward them, old age had rendered the good father indulgent. “You can’t correct animals,” he would say; “if I held anything against them for not changing their ways, I should have to bear grudges against many of my parishioners.” And he contented himself with clapping his hands in warning as he entered his orchard, in order not to be a witness of too flagrant depredations.

Then followed a rush of wings, as if all the flowers, gone mad and blown by a gale, had started to fly: gray, white, yellow, mottled; a little flight, a rustling of leaves, and then quiet, for five minutes. The most profound stillness! You must know that there was not a workshop in the village, not a loom nor a sledgehammer, and the sounds made by men and their horses and cattle, spread over the fields, solitary and unseen, melted and died in the shimmering air that rose all day from the heated earth. Mills were unknown, the roads were little frequented, and railroads far away. If the repentance of these garden robbers had lasted, the Abbé would have gone to sleep over his breviary for the stillness.

But the return was prompt; a sparrow would set the example; a jay would follow; then the whole flock was at work again. And the Abbé might pass and repass, open or shut his book, murmuring: “They won’t leave me a seed this year!” but not a bird would leave his spoils any more than if only a thick-leaved, coneshaped pear-tree were swaying to and fro on the sandy walk.

Birds understand that those who bark never bite. Every spring they built their nests around the presbytery of St. Philemon in greater numbers than anywhere else. The best places were quickly taken up: the hollows in the trees, holes in the walls, the three-forked crotches of the apple-trees or of the yoke-elms; and brown bills, like sword-points, might be seen peeping out of a handful of coarse hay between the rafters of the roof. One year a thrifty tomtit observed the evenly cut slot, protected by a shelf, sunk in the thick, rough stones on the right of the main entrance to the presbytery; she slipped inside, then returned, satisfied by the exploration, and soon brought thither the wherewithal to build a nest, neglecting nothing that might serve to keep it warm, neither feathers, horsehair, wool, nor scales of lichen plucked from the trunks of trees.

Now, the curate of Saint-Philemon was by no means a gourmand; he had reached the age when the appetite is only a remembrance. His back was bent, his face wrinkled, one of his little gray eyes was sightless behind his great round glasses, and one ear was so deaf that he had to turn about and present the other when any one addressed him on the wrong side.

It was not he who ate the fruits of his orchard; lawless urchins stole their share, and the birds took theirs. Blackbirds feasted there the year round, singing their loudest in payment; orioles, birds of passage, assisted them during the weeks of greatest abundance; sparrows clamored for their rights, and tomtits—a prolific, greedy species—clung, back downwards, to the branches, turning, climbing, pecking a grape here and a pear there—genuine marauders, offering as a recompense their cries, shrill as the rasping of a saw.

Old age had made the priest indulgent even to them. “Brutes never correct their faults,” he said; “if I were to condemn them on that account, how many of my parishioners should I not have to condemn for the same reason !” He contented himself, therefore, with clapping his hands on entering his garden, so as not to have to be the witness of too outrageous depredations.

There would then be a general uprising of wings, as if all the blossoms around, broken off by a strong wind, had begun to fly—gray, white, yellow, and red. Peace followed for five minutes. But the silence was so great in this little village, where no sound of industry or traffic was heard, that if the repentance of these feathered vandals had continued, the abbé would surely have fallen asleep over his breviary.

Fortunately, the return was prompt; a bold sparrow would lead the way, followed by a blue jay, and soon the whole band of robbers were again at work. The abbé could then pass and repass, open and close his book, muttering, “They will not leave a thing this year;” it made no difference; not a bird paid the slightest attention to him.

Birds know very well that those who are in sympathy with them will show themselves indulgent. Every spring they nested around the rectory in greater numbers than anywhere else. The best places were all quickly taken—hollows in the trees, holes in the walls, three-branched forks in the apple and pear trees; and one could even see brown bills like swordpoints protruding from bunches of hay filling every available spot on the roof.

One year, every desirable place being occupied, I suppose, a tomtit spied the slit under the slanting board covering the letter-box placed at the right of the entrance to the presbytery. It slipped inside, came out apparently satisfied with the results of the exploration, and at once set about building a nest in the newly discovered region, forgetting nothing that would make it warm—feathers, wool, hair, and even bits of lichens from the old trees.

But you must not think that the abbé of St. Philémon was a gourmand. He had reached the age when appetite is only a memory. His shoulders were bent, his face was wrinkled, he had two little gray eyes, one of which could not see any longer, and he was so deaf in one ear that if you happened to be on that side you just had to get round on the other.

Mercy, no! he did not eat all the fruits in his orchard. The boys got their share—and a big share—but the biggest share, by all odds, was eaten by the birds—the blackbirds, who lived there very comfortably all the year, and sang in return the best they could; the orioles, pretty birds of passage, who helped them in summer, and the sparrows, and the warblers of every variety; and the tomtits, swarms of them, with feathers as thick as your fingers, and they hung on the branches and pecked at a grape or scratched a pear—veritable little beasts of prey, whose only “thank you” was a shrill cry like a saw.

Even to them, old age had made the abbé of St. Philémon indulgent. “The beasts cannot correct their faults,” he used to say; “if I got angry at them for not changing I’d have to get angry with a good many of my parishioners!”

And he contented himself with clapping his hands together loud when he went into his orchard, so he should not see too much stealing.

Then there was a spreading of wings, as if all the silly flowers cut off by a great wind were flying away; gray, and white, and yellow, and mottled, a short flight, a rustling of leaves, and then quiet for five minutes. But what minutes! Fancy, if you can, that there was not one factory in the village, not a weaver or a blacksmith, and that the noise of men with their horses and cattle, spreading over the wide, distant plains, melted into the whispering of the breeze and was lost. Mills were unknown, the roads were little frequented, the railroads were very far away. Indeed, if the ravagers of his garden had repented for long the abbé would have fallen asleep of the silence over his breviary.

Fortunately, their return was prompt; a sparrow led the way, a jay followed, and then the whole swarm was back at work. And the abbé could walk up and down, close his book or open it, and murmur: “They’ll not leave me a berry this year!”

It made no difference; not a bird left his prey, any more than if the good abbé had been a cone-shaped pear-tree, with thick leaves, balancing himself on the gravel of the walk.

The birds know that those who complain take no action. Every year they built their nests around the parsonage of St. Philémon in greater numbers than anywhere else. The best places were quickly taken, the hollows in the trees, the holes in the walls, the forks of the apple-trees and the elms, and you could see a brown beak, like the point of a sword, sticking out of a wisp of straw between all the rafters of the roof. One year, when all the places were taken, I suppose, a tomtit, in her embarrassment, spied the slit of the letter-box protected by its little roof, at the right of the parsonage gate. She slipped in, was satisfied with the result of her explorations, and brought the materials to build a nest. There was nothing she neglected that would make it warm, neither the feathers, nor the horsehair, nor the wool, nor even the scales of lichens that cover old wood.

There were many fruit trees in the orchard. Little boys and girls often came to take the fruit, but the priest never shouted at them or punished them. He only looked at them through his round glasses and smiled. He knew who took away more fruit than the children. The birds did! Hundreds of birds came to peck at the fruit on the trees.

In the spring, the old priest noticed that the birds were busy all day. They built nests in the tree trunks, in the holes of the church walls and in branches outside the priest’s window. They hopped in and out of nests with twigs, wool, hay or feathers in their beaks.

Little children often came to take the fruits from the orchard, but the priest never shouted at them. Many birds also came to peck at the fruit on the trees. The priest would smile at them.

Un matin, la servante Philomène arriva d’un air furieux, tendant un papier. C’était sous la tonnelle de laurier, au fond du jardin.

– Tenez, monsieur le curé, v’là un papier, et sale encore ! Ils en font de belles !

– Qui donc, Philomène ?

– Vos oiseaux de malheur, tous les oiseaux que vous souffrez ici ! Ils nicheront bientôt dans vos soupières…

– Je n’en ai qu’une.

– Ont-ils pas eu l’idée de pondre dans notre boîte aux lettres ! Je l’ai ouverte parce que le facteur sonnait, ce qui ne lui arrive pas tous les jours. Elle était pleine : du foin, du crin, des fils d’aragne, de la plume : de quoi garnir un édredon, et, au milieu de tout ça, une bête que je n’ai pas vue, qui siffle comme une vipère !

Le curé de Saint-Philémon se prit à rire, comme un aïeul à qui l’on raconte les frasques d’un enfant.

– Ça doit être une mésange charbonnière, dit-il ; il n’y a qu’elles pour inventer des tours pareils. N’y touchez pas surtout, Philomène !

– N’y a pas de danger, pour ce que c’est beau !

L’abbé se hâta, traversa le jardin, la maison, la cour plantée d’asperges, jusqu’au mur de clôture qui séparait le presbytère du chemin public, et là, d’un effort discret de la main, entrouvrit la niche monumentale, où la correspondance annuelle de toute la commune aurait pu tenir.

Il ne s’était pas trompé. La forme du nid en pomme de pin, sa couleur, la composition de la trame, de la chaîne et de la doublure qui transparaissait, l’épanouirent. Il écouta le sifflement de la couveuse invisible, et répondit :

One morning Philomena, the maidservant, came out, with a furious air, to meet the Abbé in the laurel arbor at the end of the garden. In her hand she held a sheet of paper.

“Look here, your reverence! here’s a paper belonging to you, and dirty besides. If they don’t beat all!”

“Whom do you mean, Philomena?”

“Those precious birds of yours—all the birds that you have around here. They’ll be making nests in your soup-tureens next!”

“I’ve only one, my good Philomena!”

“They have gone and laid eggs in your letter-box, your reverence! I opened it because the postman rang, which doesn’t happen every day. And I’m blessed if the box wasn’t full! There was hay, horsehair, spiders’ webs, and feathers enough to stuff a pillow, and in the middle of the whole mess was a creature the like of which I never have seen before, hissing like a viper!”

The good priest began to laugh, like a grandfather hearing of the pranks of a youngster.

“It must be a coal tomtit,” said he. “You can’t beat them for tricks like that. But don’t touch it, whatever you do, Philomena.”

“No danger, your reverence! There’s no fear of my touching the thing!”

The Abbé hastened across the garden, through the house and the court, planted with asparagus, to the wall of the enclosure that separated the house from the highway; and there, with a cautious movement of the hand, he opened slightly the monumental letter-box which could easily have contained the entire annual correspondence of the village.

He was not deceived. The form of the nest, shaped like a pine-cone, its color, the composition of the warp and woof, and of the lining showing through, delighted him. He listened to the hissing of the unseen sitter, and said:

One morning Philomène, the housekeeper, rushed angrily out into the garden, with a paper in her hands. She met the curate strolling along under an archway of laurel-trees.

“Look at this paper, monsieur! See how dirty it is! They are a pretty lot!”

“Who, Philomène!”

“Why, those miserable birds you allow around here. They will be nesting in your soup-bowls next.”

“I have only one.”

“They have even had the impudence to hang a nest inside your letter-box. I opened it because the postman rang, and that doesn’t happen every day. It was full of hay, hair, threads, feathers of every kind, and in the center was a thing I never saw before hissing like a viper!”

The priest began to laugh, like a grandfather when he is told of the pranks of a favorite grandchild.

“It must be the coal tomtit,” he replied. “Nothing else would devise such a scheme. Above all, don’t meddle with it, Philomène.”

“No danger of that; it isn’t such a beautiful object!” replied the old woman, disdainfully.

The abbé hastened away across the garden, through the house, down the walk to the gateway which shut in the presbytery, and, with a careful hand, half opened the box, which would have held the annual correspondence of the whole village.

He was right. The cone-shaped nest, its color, the composition of its woof, and its transparent lining, confirmed the conjecture of the delighted old man. He listened to the hissing of the invisible mother, then said:

One morning the housekeeper came in perfectly furious, carrying a paper. She had found it under the laurel bush, at the foot of the garden.

“Look, sir, a paper, and dirty, too! They are up to fine doings!”

“Who, Philomène?”

“Your miserable birds; all the birds that you let stay here! Pretty soon they’ll be building their nests in your soup-tureens!”

“I haven’t but one.”

“Haven’t they got the idea of laying their eggs in your letter-box! I opened it because the postman rang and that doesn’t happen every day. It was full of straw and horsehair and spiders’ webs, with enough feathers to make a quilt, and, in the midst of all that, a beast that I didn’t see hissed at me like a viper!”

The abbé of St. Philémon began to laugh like a grandfather when he hears of a baby’s pranks.

“That must be a tomtit,” said he, “they are the only birds clever enough to think of it. Be careful not to touch it, Philomène.”

“No fear of that; it is not nice enough!”

The abbé went hastily through the garden, the house, the court planted with asparagus, till he came to the wall which separated the parsonage from the public road, and there he carefully opened the letter-box, in which there would have been room enough for all the mail received in a year by all the inhabitants of the village.

Sure enough, he was not mistaken. The shape of the nest, like a pine-cone, its color and texture, and the lining, which showed through, made him smile. He heard the hiss of the brooding bird inside and replied:

One day, the priest’s helper, who was called Maria, burst into his room.

“You will not believe what they are doing!” she cried.

“Who, Maria?”

“The birds,” she said.

“What are they doing?”

“They are building a nest in your letter box at the bottom of the garden,” she replied. “I opened it to see if there were any letters for you. And what did I see? Bits of hay, paper, twigs and wool!”

The old priest laughed. “They must be sparrows,” he said.

He hurried off to look inside the letter box. There he saw two busy, brown sparrows. They were building their nest.

One day, the priest wanted to clean his letter box. But when he opened it, he saw two busy, brown sparrows. They were building their nest in it.

– Sois tranquille, petite, je te connais : vingt et un jours d’incubation, trois semaines pour élever la famille, c’est ce que tu demandes ? Tu les auras : j’emporte la clef.

“Never mind, little one! I know you. Twenty-one days for hatching; three weeks to raise your family. Is that what you want? Well, you shall have it: I’ll take away the key with me.”

“Never fear, little one! I understand your case; twenty-one days of incubation and three weeks for raising your family are what you want. You shall have them; I shall take the key away, so that you will not be disturbed.”

“Rest easy, little one, I know you. Twenty-one days to hatch your eggs and three weeks to raise your family; that is what you want? You shall have it. I’ll take away the key.”

“I know you, my little ones,” smiled the priest. “In a few days, you will have three or four brown eggs. When the eggs hatch, you will need three weeks to bring up your family. All right, I will make sure that no one disturbs you.”

“I know you, my little ones,” smiled the priest. “You are making your home. In a few days, you will have three or four brown eggs. When the eggs hatch, you should have three weeks to bring up your family. Don’t worry, no one will disturb you.”

Il emporta la clef, en effet, et, quand il eut rempli ses obligations du matin : visite à des paroissiens dans la peine ou dans la misère ; recommandations au messager, qui devait choisir pour lui des graines à la ville ; ascension du clocher, dont un orage avait descellé quelques pierres, il se ressouvint de la mésange et songea qu’elle pourrait être troublée par l’arrivée d’une correspondance, la chute d’une lettre en pleine couvée.

L’hypothèse était peu vraisemblable : on ne recevait, à Saint-Philémon, pas plus de lettres qu’on n’en expédiait. Le facteur n’était guère qu’un promeneur mangeant la soupe chez l’un, buvant un coup chez l’autre, et remettant, de loin en loin, une épître de conscrit ou un avis d’impôt dans une ferme écartée. Cependant, comme la Saint-Robert approchait, laquelle, comme on sait, tombe le vingt-neuvième jour d’avril, l’abbé crut prudent d’écrire aux trois seuls amis vraiment dignes de ce nom que la mort lui eût conservés, un laïque et deux clercs : « Mon ami, ne me souhaitez pas ma fête cette année. Je vous le demande. Il me serait désagréable de recevoir une lettre en ce moment. Plus tard je vous expliquerai, et vous comprendrez mes raisons. »

Ils crurent que son œil déclinait, et n’écrivirent point.

M. le curé de Saint-Philémon s’en réjouit. Pendant trois semaines, il ne passa pas une fois dans l’encadrement de la porte sans penser aux œufs tiquetés de rose qui reposaient là, tout près, et, quand le vingt-deuxième jour eut sonné, s’étant courbé, il écouta, l’oreille collée aux lèvres de la boîte, puis se redressa, radieux :

– Ça gazouille, Philomène, ça gazouille ! En voilà qui me doivent la vie, par exemple ; et ce n’est pas eux qui regretteront ce que j’ai fait, ni moi non plus !

Il avait en lui, tout vieux qu’il fût, des coins d’âme d’enfant qui n’avaient pas vieilli.

And carry away the key he did; and when he had performed his morning’s duties—visits to his parishioners in sorrow or in trouble; directions to the messenger going to the city to choose seeds for him; a climb up to the belfry, where a storm had loosened some stones—he bethought himself of the tomtit, and reflected that she might be disturbed by the arrival of a letter falling upon her in the midst of her sitting.

The possibility was not very likely: St. Philemon received no more letters than it sent out. The postman was hardly more than a passing visitor, taking supper with one family, drinking a glass with another, and handing at rare intervals some conscript’s letter or a tax notice to some out-of-the-way farm. However, as St. Robert’s day was approaching, which, as every one knows, falls on the twenty-ninth day of April, the Abbé thought it prudent to write to the only three friends worthy of the name that death had left him, one layman, and two clergymen, thus: “Dear Friend: Don’t send me any remembrances of my birthday this year, I beg. It would be inconvenient for me to receive a letter just now. Later I will explain, and you will understand my reasons.”

They thought that his sight was failing, and did not write.

The good old priest was delighted thereby. For three weeks he never passed his doorstep without thinking of the pink-speckled eggs that lay within the box, and when the twenty-second day had arrived, he stooped over and listened, with his ear close to the opening of the box. Then he rose, radiant: “They’re chirping Philomena, they’re chirping! And they owe their lives to me, too! I’ll wager that they don’t regret what I have done. No more do I.”

He had within him, old as he was, a child’s soul that never had grown old.

He did so, in fact. After he had made his morning rounds in the parish, he thought again of the tomtit, that it might possibly be disturbed by the arrival of some mail, that a letter might be dropped in upon it during the brooding period.

The event was not very probable, as letters were rare in the parish. Still, as the holiday of Saint Robert was nearing, the priest thought it would be prudent to write these words to the three remaining friends death had left to him: “Do not send me any holiday greetings this year. It would be disagreeable for me to receive a letter just at present. Later l will explain, and you will understand my reasons.”

The friends thought his eyesight had failed him, so they did not write.

During the whole three weeks of incubation the curate did not pass through the gateway once without thinking of the little eggs dotted with red lying there so close to him. When the twenty-second day arrived, he bent over and listened, his ear against the opening of the box; then stood up, exclaiming gleefully:

“They are chirping, Philomène! they are chirping! Now, there are some things that owe their lives to me; they shall not regret it, nor I either!”

He did take away the key, and when he had finished the morning’s duties—visits to his parishioners who were ill or in trouble; instructions to a boy who was to pick him out some fruit at the village: a climb up the steeple because a storm had loosened some stones, he remembered the tomtit and began to be afraid she would be troubled by the arrival of a letter while she was hatching her eggs.

The fear was almost groundless, because the people of St. Philémon did not receive any more letters than they sent. The postman had little to do on his rounds but to eat soup at one house, to have a drink at another and, once in a long while, to leave a letter from some conscript, or a bill for taxes at some distant farm. Nevertheless, since St. Robert’s Day was near, which, as you know, comes on the 29th of April, the abbé thought it wise to write to the only three friends worthy of that name, whom death had left him, a layman and two priests: “My friend, do not congratulate me on my saint’s day this year, if you please. It would inconvenience me to receive a letter at this time. Later I shall explain, and you will appreciate my reasons.”

They thought that his eye was worse and did not write.

The abbé of St. Philémon was delighted. For three weeks he never entered his gate one time without thinking of the eggs, speckled with pink, that were lying in the letter-box, and when the twenty-first day came round he bent down and listened with his ear close to the slit of the box. Then he stood up beaming:

“I hear them chirp, Philomène; I hear them chirp. They owe their lives to me, sure enough, and they’ll not be the ones to regret it any more than I.”

He had in his bosom the heart of a child that had never grown old.

The old priest carefully locked the letter box. “If I lock the letter box, my little sparrows will be safe,” he explained to Maria.

After a few days, only the father sparrow flew in and out of the letter box. “Ah,” thought the old priest, “the mother sparrow is sitting on her eggs.”

A few more days went by. The priest bent down and put his ear to the letter box.

“They are cheeping!” he cried happily. “The eggs have hatched!”

The priest locked the door, and told everyone not to open it. “I want the sparrows to be safe,” he said.

Or, en même temps, dans le salon vert de l’évêché, au chef-lieu du département, l’évêque délibérait sur les nominations à faire, avec ses conseillers ordinaires, ses deux vicaires généraux, le doyen du chapitre, le secrétaire général de son évêché et le directeur du grand séminaire. Après avoir pourvu à quelques postes de vicaires et de desservants, il opina ainsi :

Now, at this same time, in the green drawing-room of the Bishop’s palace, in the capital of the department, the Bishop deliberated over the nominations in hand, with his regular counselors: his two vicars-general, the dean of the chapter, the secretary-general of the bishopric, and the director of the large seminary. Having provided for several vicarages and parishes, he expressed himself thus:

Meanwhile, in the green parlor of his palace, in the capital of the department, the Bishop of the canton was deliberating with his advisers over appointments he was about to make. After having made some provisions, he expressed himself thus:

Now, at the same time, in the green room of the palace, at the chief town of the department, the bishop was deliberating over the appointments to be made with his regular councillors, his two grand vicars, the dean of the chapter, the secretary-general of the palace, and the director of the great academy. After he had appointed several vicars and priests he made this suggestion:

Now, while the old priest was listening to the birds in his letter box, an important meeting was taking place in Barcelona. The Archbishop and some priests were talking about the old priest of Santa.

Now, something important was happening in Barcelona, at the same time. The Archbishop and some other priests were talking about the priest in Santa.

– Messieurs du conseil, j’ai un candidat de tous points excellent pour la cure de X… ; mais il me paraît convenable de proposer du moins cette charge et cet honneur à l’un de nos plus anciens desservants, celui de Saint-Philémon. Il n’acceptera pas sans doute, et sa modestie non moins que son âge en sera la cause ; mais nous aurons rendu hommage, autant qu’il est en nous, à sa vertu.

Les cinq conseillers furent unanimes dans l’approbation, et, le soir même, une lettre partait de l’évêché, signée par l’évêque, et qui portait en post-scriptum : « Répondez immédiatement, mon cher curé, ou plutôt venez me voir, car je suis obligé de faire ma proposition d’ici trois jours au gouvernement. »

“Gentlemen of the council: I have a candidate, excellent in all points for the parish of X——; but it seems to me only proper to offer first, at least, this charge and this honor to one of our oldest priests, the Abbé of St. Philemon. He will not accept, of course, his modesty, not less than his age, will prevent him; but we shall have rendered homage, as far as we can, to his virtue.”

The five counsellors approved unanimously, and that very evening a letter left the episcopal palace, signed by the Bishop, and bearing this postscript: “Reply immediately, my dear Abbé, or, rather, come to see me, because I shall be obliged to submit my nominations to the government three days hence.”

“Messieurs, I have a candidate in every way suitable for the living of X———; but it seems to me fitting to at least offer this charge and honor to one of our oldest clergymen, the curate of Saint-Philemon. He will not accept it, doubtless; his modesty not less than his age will prevent him from doing so; but by making the offer we shall have rendered all possible homage to his worthiness.”

The five were unanimous in their approval of this course of action, and that very evening a letter was despatched from the palace signed by the Bishop and containing this postscript: “Reply at once, my dear abbé, or rather come to see me, as I shall have to send in my appointments within three days.”

“Gentlemen of the council, I have in mind a candidate suitable in all respects for the parish of X———; but I think it would be well, at least, to offer that charge and that honor to one of our oldest priests, the abbé of St. Philémon. He will undoubtedly refuse it, and his modesty, no less than his age, will be the cause; but we shall have shown, as far as we could, our appreciation of his virtues.”

The five councilors approved unanimously, and that very evening a letter was sent from the palace, signed by the bishop, and which contained in a postscript: “Answer at once, my dear abbé; or, better, come to see me, because I must submit my appointments to the government within three days.”

“The priest in Santa is too old now,” said the Archbishop. “We should send a young priest there instead.”

“But the villagers love him,” replied the priests. “Let him work in the village for some more time.”

The Archbishop thought hard. At last, he said, “I know what to do. I will set him a test to find out if he is too old. I will ask him to come to see me in three days. If he comes, I will let him stay in Santa. If he does not come, I will send a new, young priest to Santa.” The Archbishop picked up his pen and started to write a letter.

“The priest is very old,” said the Archbishop.

“We should have a young priest in Santa,” said one priest.

“But,” said another, “the villagers love him. Let him work in the village for some more time.”

They all thought for some time. At last, the Archbishop said, “I know what to do. I will test him to find out if he is very old, and cannot work. I will write a letter, and ask him to come to see me in three days. If he comes, I will let him stay in Santa. If he does not come, I will send a new, young priest to Santa.”

The Archbishop wrote a letter to the old priest.

La lettre parvint à Saint-Philémon le jour même de l’éclosion des mésanges. Elle fut glissée avec peine, par le facteur, dans l’ouverture de la boîte, y disparut, et resta là, touchant la base du nid, comme un pavage blanc au fond de la chambre obscure.

The letter arrived at St. Philemon the very day of the hatching of the tomtits. The postman squeezed it with difficulty into the opening of the box; it disappeared, and dropped to the bottom of the nest, like a white plate at the bottom of a camera obscura.

The letter reached Saint-Philemon on the very day of the hatching of the tomtits. The postman with difficulty thrust it into the slit of the box; it dropped to the bottom, where it lay like a white floor on a dark chamber.

The letter arrived at St. Philémon the very day the tomtits were hatched. The postman had difficulty in slipping it into the slit of the box, but it disappeared inside and lay touching the base of the nest, like a white pavement at the bottom of the dark chamber.

The next day, the postman dropped the Archbishop’s letter into the old priest’s letter box. It fell to the bottom of the box and lay beside the nest. No one saw the postman who came to the bottom of the garden and put the letter in the box. No one opened the letter box because they did not want to disturb the sparrows.

The next day, the postman dropped the Archbishop’s letter into the old priest’s letter box. It fell to the bottom of the box, beside the nest.

No one saw the postman who came to the garden an1d put the letter in the box. No one opened the letter box. Nobody wanted to disturb the sparrows.

Et le temps vint où, sur les ailerons des mésangeaux, les tuyaux bleus tout pleins de sang se garnirent de duvet. Quatorze petits, piaillant, flageolant sur leurs pattes molles, le bec ouvert jusqu’au-dessus des yeux, ne cessèrent, de l’aube au soir, d’attendre la becquée, de la manger, de la digérer et d’en demander d’autre. C’était la première période, où les nourrissons n’ont pas d’esprit. Elle dure peu pour les oiseaux. Bientôt il y eut des disputes dans le nid, qui commença à céder sous l’effort des ailes ; on y fit des culbutes par-dessus bord, des excursions le long des parois de la boîte, des stations près de l’entrée de la caverne, par où se glissait l’air du monde. Puis on se risqua dehors.

Le curé de Saint-Philémon assista, d’un pré voisin, avec un extrême plaisir, à cette garden-party. En voyant les petits apparaître sous la planchette de la boîte aux lettres, deux, trois ensemble, prendre leur vol, rentrer, repartir comme des abeilles à la trappe d’une ruche, il se dit : « Voilà une enfance terminée et une bonne œuvre finie : ils sont tous drus. »

After a time the blue quills, stemlike on the wings of the little tomtits, became garnished with down. Fourteen little ones, squalling, trembling on their soft feet, their mouths wide open, never ceased from dawn till dark to call for food, to eat it, to digest it, and to demand more. This was during the first period, when the nestlings have no spirit. This lasts but a short time among birds. Soon quarrels broke out in the nest, which gave way under strokes of the wings; then there were tumbles overboard, trips along the wall of the box, pauses near the entry of the cavern, through which entered the air of the outer world. At last they ventured outside.

The old priest, from a neighboring meadow, was a delighted spectator of this garden-party. Watching the little ones appear from under the shelf of the letter-box, in twos and threes, taking wing, returning, leaving again, like bees at the entrance of a hive, he said: “Their babyhood is over, and it is a good thing; they are fully fledged now.”

The time at last came when the blue, blood-filled tubes on the wings of the nestlings were adorned with down. Fourteen little tomtits, peeping, tumbling about on their soft claws, stretching their mouths open to the widest extent, waited for the morsels from the mother-bird, ate them, digested them, and clamored for more. This was the first period of life, before the dawn of intelligence. With birds it is of short duration. Soon there were quarrels in the nest, and it began to yield to the assaults of little wings; then there were falls over its edges, excursions along the side of the box, and long stations near the entrance of the cavern through which entered light and air from the outside world.

Stationed a distance away, the curate witnessed this garden-party with extreme pleasure. On seeing the little ones come out from under the slanting board two and three together, fly off, return, pass inside, then out again, like bees from a hive, he thought: “Their infancy is over, and a good start is made; they are fledged now.”

The time came when the tiny points on the wings of the little tomtits began to be covered with down. There were fourteen of them, and they twittered and staggered on their little feet, with their beaks open up to their eyes, never ceasing, from morning till night, to wait for food, eat it, digest it, and demand more. That was the first period, when the baby birds hadn’t any sense. But in birds it doesn’t last long. Very soon they quarrelled in the nest, which began to break with the fluttering of their wings, then they tumbled out of it and walked along the side of the box, peeped through the slit at the big world outside, and at last they ventured out.

The abbé of St. Philémon, with a neighboring priest, attended this pleasant garden party. When the little ones appeared beneath the roof of the box—two, three—together and took their flight, came back, started again, like bees at the door of a hive, he said:

“Behold, a babyhood ended and a good work accomplished. They are hardy and strong, every one.”

For three weeks, the mother sparrow and father sparrow carried food in and out of the letter box. The baby sparrows cheeped louder and louder. Then, one by one, they came to the opening of the letter box and flew away. The priest counted four baby sparrows.

For three weeks, the mother sparrow and the father sparrow carried food in and out of the letter box. The baby sparrows cheeped happily and loudly. Then, one by one, they flew away. The priest counted, “One…two…three….and four. There are four baby sparrows.”

Le lendemain, pendant l’heure de loisir qui suivait le dîner, il se rendit près de la boîte, la clef en main. « Toc, toc », fit-il. Rien ne répondit. « Je le pensais bien », murmura le curé. Et il ouvrit, et, mêlée aux débris du nid, la lettre lui tomba dans la main.

The next day, during the rest hour following dinner, he went to the box, key in hand. Tap, tap! No response. “I thought so,” he murmured. Then he opened the box, and, mingled with the rubbish of the nest, a letter fell into his hand.

The following day, during the hour of leisure after dinner, he repaired to the box, key in hand. “Toc, toc,” he rapped. There was no reply. “I thought so,” he murmured. He then opened the box, and, with the débris of the nest, the letter fell out into his hand.

The next day, during his hour of leisure after dinner, the abbé came to the box with the key in his hand. “Tap, tap,” he went. There was no answer. “I thought so,” said he. Then he opened the box and, mingled with the débris of the nest, the letter fell into his hands.

The next morning, the priest went to the letter box at the bottom of his garden. “Toc, toc,” he knocked.

There was no sound. He opened the box. There were no birds inside. But a long, white envelope fell out on to the grass. The priest opened the letter.

The next morning, the priest went to the letter box.

“Toc, toc,” he knocked.

There was no sound. He opened the box. “Ah,” he said. “There is no bird inside. But what’s that?” he asked himself. There was a long, white envelope at the bottom of the box. The priest opened the letter.

– Grand Dieu ! dit-il en reconnaissant l’écriture, une lettre de Monseigneur ! et en quel état ! et depuis quel temps ?

Il pâlit en la lisant.

– Philomène, attelez Robin, et vite !

Elle vint voir avant d’obéir.

– Et qu’avez-vous, monsieur le curé ?

– L’évêque m’attend depuis trois semaines !

– Ça ne se rattrape pas, dit la vieille.

L’absence dura jusqu’au lendemain soir. Quand le curé de Saint-Philémon rentra chez lui, il avait l’air paisible ; mais la paix quelquefois ne va pas sans effort, et nous luttons pour la maintenir. Quand il eut aidé à dételer Robin, donné l’avoine, changé de soutane, et vidé le coffre où il rapportait une vingtaine de petits colis achetés pendant l’expédition urbaine, il était l’heure où, dans les branches, les oiseaux se racontent la journée. Une pluie d’orage était tombée, des gouttes d’eau pleuvaient encore des feuilles remuées par ces couples de bohémiens cherchant la bonne place pour la nuit.

“Heaven bless me!” said he, recognizing the writing, “a letter from his lordship. And look at it! How long has it been here?” He turned pale as he read it.

“Philomena, harness Robin, and be quick about it!” he called.

The maid came to find out what was the matter before obeying.

“What’s wrong now, your reverence?”

“The Bishop has been waiting for me for three weeks!”

“You can’t make up for all that loss of time,” said the old woman.

The Abbé was away until the evening of the next day. When he returned home he wore a peaceful air; but peace is not always attained without effort, and often we have to struggle to maintain it. When he had helped to unharness Robin, had given him some oats, changed his cassock, and emptied the box in which he had brought back a score of little packages bought during the trip to the city, it was about the time when the birds in the branches gossip together of the doings of the day. A shower had fallen, and drops of water still fell from the leaves shaken by these gipsy pairs seeking shelter for the night.

“Great heavens!” he exclaimed, recognizing the seal and the writing. “A letter from Monseigneur, and in what a condition! and how old!”

He grew pale as he read it.

“Philomène, hitch up Robin at once,” he called out.

Before obeying, the old servant came out to see what had happened.

“What is it, monsieur?” she asked.

“The Bishop has been expecting me for three weeks.”

“That time can never be made up,” replied the old woman, curtly.

The absence lasted until the following afternoon. When the priest returned, he was very calm; but calmness is sometimes the result of an effort, and one has to struggle to maintain it.

By the time he had unhitched Robin, fed him his oats, changed his cassock, and emptied a box of some little purchases made during his trip, it was the hour when the birds in the branches were chatting over the events of the day. It had been raining, and drops of water fell from the leaves shaken by bohemian couples seeking a good resting-place for the night.

“Good Heavens!” said he, recognizing the writing. “A letter from the bishop; and in what a state! How long has it been here?”

His cheek grew pale as he read.

“Philomène, harness Robin quickly.”

She came to see what was the matter before obeying.

“What have you there, sir?”

“The bishop has been waiting for me three weeks!”

“You’ve missed your chance,” said the old woman.

The abbé was away until the next evening. When he came back he had a peaceful air, but sometimes peace is not attained without effort and we have to struggle to keep it. When he had helped to unharness Robin and had given him some hay, had changed his cassock and unpacked his box, from which he took a dozen little packages of things bought on his visit to the city, it was the very time that the birds assembled in the branches to tell each other about the day. There had been a shower and the drops still fell from the leaves as they were shaken by these bohemian couples looking for a good place to spend the night.

“This came three weeks ago,” he sighed, “but I did not open it. The Archbishop asked me to see him in three days. I have failed his test. Now he will send me away from Santa.” A tear came to his eye.

“This came three weeks ago,” he spoke sadly, “but I did not open it. The Archbishop had asked me to see him in three days. I have failed his test. Now he will send me away from Santa.” A tear came to his eye.

En reconnaissant leur maître et ami qui dévalait l’allée sablée, ils descendaient, voletaient, faisaient un bruit inusité, et les mésanges, celles du nid, les quatorze encore mal emplumées, essayaient leurs premières spirales autour des poiriers et leurs premiers cris à l’air libre.

Le curé de Saint-Philémon les observa d’un œil paternel, mais avec une tendresse mélancolique, comme on regarde ceux qui nous ont coûté cher.

Recognizing their master and friend coming down the sandy walk, they dropped down, fluttered about, making a great racket, and the tomtits of the letterbox nest, the whole fourteen, still half-feathered, attempted their first spiral flight around the pear-trees, and trilled their first notes in the open air.

The priest regarded them with a paternal eye, but with a melancholy tenderness, as we look on those who have cost us dear.

On seeing their master and friend coming down the sandy walk, they flew out and circled around, making an unusual amount of noise, and the tomtits, the fourteen nestlings, scantily fledged as yet, made their first attempts at spirals around the pear-trees, and tried their voices for the first time in the open air.

The curate watched them with a paternal eye and the melancholy tenderness with which we often regard those who have cost us dear.

Recognizing their friend and master as he walked up and down the gravel path, they came down, fluttered about him, making an unusually loud noise, and the tomtits, the fourteen of the nest, whose feathers were still not quite grown, essayed their first spirals about the pear-trees and their first cries in the open air.

The abbé of St. Philémon watched them with a fatherly eye, but his tenderness was sad, as we look at things that have cost us dear.

He looked up and saw the sparrow family. They were sitting in a tree just above the letter box, singing happily.

He looked up and saw the family of the sparrow. They were sitting in a tree just above the letter box. They were singing and were very happy.

– Allons, mes petites, dit-il, sans moi vous ne seriez pas ici, et sans vous je serais curé de canton. Je ne regrette rien, non ; mais n’insistez pas : vous avez la reconnaissance bruyante.

Il frappa dans ses mains, impatienté.

Et jamais il n’avait eu d’ambition, non, bien sûr ; et en ce moment même il était véridique. Cependant, le lendemain, après une nuit coupée d’insomnies, causant avec Philomène, il lui dit :

– L’année prochaine, Philomène, si la mésange revient, vous me préviendrez. C’est incommode, décidément.

Mais la mésange ne revint pas, ni la grande lettre timbrée aux armes de l’évêque.

“Very well, my dears,” said he, “but for me you wouldn’t be here, and but for you I should have a cantonal pastorate. I don’t regret anything, of course, but don’t be too insistent; your gratitude is too noisy.” He clapped his hands, provoked.

Never had he had any ambition, and he was quite truthful then in what he said. The next morning, however, after a night broken by sleeplessness, speaking to Philomena, he said:

“Next year, Philomena, if the tomtits come back, you must tell me about it. It is decidedly inconvenient to have them there!”

But the tomtits did not return, nor did any imposing letter bearing the arms of the Bishop!

“Well, my little ones,” he said at last, “but for me you would not be here, and but for you I should be priest of the canton. I do not regret anything, mind you, only do not be so insistent; your gratitude is too noisy.”

As he spoke he clapped his hands impatiently.

He never had been ambitious, and he spoke the truth now. Still, the next day, after a night of disturbed sleep, while chatting with Philomène, he remarked:

“If the tomtit comes back next year, let me know. It is troublesome, decidedly so.”

But the tomtit never came again; neither did the letter bearing the stamp of the Bishop’s seal.

“Well, my little ones, without me you would not be here, and without you I would be dead. I do not regret it at all, but don’t insist. Your thanks are too noisy.”

He clapped his hands impatiently.

He had never been ambitious, that is very sure, and, even at that moment, he told the truth. Nevertheless, the next day, after a night spent in talking to Philomène, he said to her:

“Next year, Philomène, if the tomtit comes back, let me know. It is decidedly inconvenient.”

But the tomtit never came again—and neither did the letter from the bishop!

“Ah well,” he smiled sadly. “I must leave Santa. But, at least, I helped you to bring up your children.”

“Ah well,” the priest smiled. “I will leave Santa. But, at least, I helped you to bring up your children.”