A flock of sparrows suddenly released from a cage could not have flown more wildly into the little wood. They were all about the same age, the eldest might be nine. They flung off coats and waistcoats, and the grass became strewn with baskets, copy-books, dictionaries, and catechisms. While the crowd of fair-haired heads, of fresh and smiling faces, noisily consulted as to which game should be chosen, a boy who had taken no part in the general gaiety, and who had been carried away by the rush without being able to escape sooner, glided slyly away among the trees, and, thinking himself unseen, was beating a hasty retreat, when one of his comrades cried out—
“Antoine is running away!”
Two of the best runners immediately started in pursuit, and the fugitive, notwithstanding his start, was speedily overtaken, seized by his collar, and brought back as a deserter.
“Where were you going?” the others demanded.
“Home to my cousins,” replied the boy; “there is no harm in that.”
“You canting sneak!” said another boy, putting his fist under the captive’s chin; “you were going to the master to tell of us.”
“Pierre,” responded Antoine, “you know quite well I never tell lies.”
“Indeed!—only this morning you pretended I had taken a book you had lost, and you did it because I kicked you yesterday, and you didn’t dare to kick me back again.”
Antoine lifted his eyes to heaven, and folding his arms on his breast—
“Dear Buttel,” he said, “you are mistaken; I have always been taught to forgive injuries.”