"What do you do here?" I inquired.
Her little heart palpitated in the answer—"Oh, guard the geese."
"Do they give you trouble?"
"Not much, except that wicked gander." She pointed out with her knitting-needle a sleek white fellow, who flirted his tail and turned an eye, quavering as if he said—"La, la, la!"
"What does he do?"
"He would be at the vines and the corn, monsieur."
"Bad gander!"
"I switch him," she informed me, like a magistrate.
"But that would only make him run."
"Also I have a string in my pocket, and I tie him by the leg to a tree."