When straining our utmost, you bring the stick down
On our miserable backs; and you swear, and you frown,
Never thinking the sun is just "doing us brown,"
As the furnace will do when we're slain.
We cannot pull more than we can, you must know,
And we cannot pull fast if we can but pull slow,
So why should you spike us, and ill-use us so,
And make our hides tingle with pain?
We serve you well always, draw heaviest loads,
And never complain of the worst of bad roads;
While you in return use those blood-drawing goads
At ev'ry conceivable time.
Be sure that no quicker or wiser are we,
But we do sometimes think if we got our horns free,
The position in which you would probably be,
And you would not pronounce it sublime.
So listen, we pray, to our modest appeal:
With kindness more proud of our work we should feel;
And if those fierce blows you still ruthlessly deal,
You'll make our flesh horrible stuff;
For though steaks are good beaten, that's done when they're cold,
And we're certainly not, nor as yet very old;
But as some day we'll have to be butchered and sold,
We had better be tender than tough.
If you'll try our plan—that is enough!
At twenty minutes past one we had repassed the graceful Jardin des Quinconces, with the weeping willows overhanging the lakelet, and were within the cool precincts of the hotel.
Having a couple of hours to spare another morning, we wended our way towards the Orphanage, "deep in the lilac grove." Turning off from the road, we followed the narrow track over the rustic bridge, and were received anything but hospitably by a huge white dog. We calmed him in time, however, and proceeded to inspect the buildings, but found nearly everyone shut up, though the little church—elevated above the rest—was, unlike them, thrown open. Its very rusticity and simplicity gave it a religious air which to us so few Roman Catholic edifices seem to possess. The badly-spelt and feebly-worded address to the Pope, to which he has affixed his signature, that hangs in a frame near the door, we did not consider much of an attraction, though to the members of the little congregation it would doubtless be a very holy relic. Forsaking this peaceful retreat, we climbed up the ascent behind, within view of the statue of the Virgin, but soon descended again, as the sun was at that time particularly "baking," and we were not doughty enough to pretend to resist it. After a cool spell near the chapel-door, watching the "painted ladies" [Footnote: Butterflies, of course!] playing with the lilac blossoms, we trudged slowly back again.
One of the pleasantest as well as most interesting of our trips in the Pyrenees was from Luchon to the little Spanish village of Bosost, and as it is one of the principal pillars that uphold the chief title of this volume, it deserves a detailed mention.
This time the favourite hour of ten was not early enough for starting, so we were on horseback by 9.15, going very leisurely, being quite undesirous to force the pace, as the day was warm even at that hour.
Up the Rue d'Espagne for a short distance beyond the Hôtel Richelieu (which hotel, from all we have heard, though large, is not too moderate nor owned by too polite a proprietor), and then we took the turning to the left, which (as the signboard tells) leads to St. Mamet. Without waiting to enter the old church to see its frescoes, we pursued the road branching off to the right, which presently left the Orphanage behind in the same direction. A few minutes later we had passed the frontier (French) custom station, and leaving the isolated Castelvieil (2514 ft.) for a short time on our right, and later in our rear, we bore up the Vallée de Burbe. We had only progressed a short distance when a huge rock was visible in the centre of the road, evidently a very recent gift from the adjacent height. Our horses having been so little used, were very fresh and rather fond of shying, and our guide's, which was an Arab, not only shied at the impediment, but wheeled round with the intention of going homewards. As we managed to make our own, however, pass quietly, the obstreperous one, after a brief struggle, was induced to follow their example. A little further on, we met a fine team of Spanish mules in their full picturesque trappings and bells. The two men in charge of them were dressed a little untidily, but their attire was equally picturesque, the coloured waistband, turban, and knee-breeches producing a very bright effect.
The bright yellow-green of the beeches, mingling with the dark and gloomy olive shade of the firs; here and there fields laden with the blue columbine and the "overrated" asphodel; the boulder-strewn slopes on our left, and the snow-ridges on the right; and the strong, fresh, and foaming cascade of Sidonie tumbling down beside us, made a very delicious contemplation as we went on our way.
Our guide in a most "gallant" manner got off his steed to gather Miss Blunt a few flowers, but when he endeavoured to assume his former elevated position, the "Arab" didn't see it. In fact he would not be mounted, and the unevenness of the track added not a little to the success of his manoeuvrings. "Luis" had not been six months a "jockey" for nothing, however; so he lulled his steed into a sense of security by walking beside it for some time in circus fashion, with his right hand grasping the off side of the saddle, until a large stone showed its head at the side of the road. As they passed, he ran up the stone and was in the saddle before the animal realised that he was beaten, and when he did, it seemed to humble him to that degree that he never attempted even a curvet.