Letters From My Windmill Alphonse Daudet (top 10 ebook reader .txt) 📖

mistral or tramontana makes the doors bang, the reedsscream, and a range of noises that make the great, natural clamour allaround. The rays of the winter sun gather and are then scattered by thefierce wind. Great shadows race around under a perfect blue sky. Thelight comes in flashes, and the noise in crashes, and the flock's bellsare suddenly heard, then lost in the wind, only to emerge again underthe rattling door like a charming refrain…. Twilight, just before thehunters come back, is the most exquisite time of day. By then the windhas moderated. I go out for a moment; the great red sun, at peace atlast, goes down in flames, but without heat. Night falls and brushesyou with its damp, black wing as it passes over. Somewhere, at groundlevel, there is a bang, a flash, as the red star of a rifle shot burstsinto the surrounding blackness. What is left of the day rushes past. Along flight of ducks flies by, low, as if looking for somewhere toland; but suddenly, catching sight of the cabin where the fire is lit,they take fright. The one at the head rises, and the rest follow asthey fly away screaming.

Soon afterwards, a great shuffling sound, something like rain falling,approaches. Thousands of sheep, brought back by the shepherds and urgedon by the dogs, are anxiously and haphazardly and breathlesslyscurrying about towards the folds. I am overrun by them and they bargeinto me as I am caught up in a maelstrom of woollen curls, andbleating. It was an ocean swell of sheep that seems to carry away theshepherds on leaping waves of wool…. Behind the flock, friendlyfootsteps and joyful voices are heard. The shack fills up, and becomeslively, and boisterous. The kindling blazes on the fire. The more tiredthey are; the more they laugh. It is a dizzy, happy fatigue, theirrifles stacked in a corner, long boots strewn about, and game bagsemptied into a bloodied heap of red, golden, green, and silver plumage.In the smoke, the table is set out with a good eel soup. Silence falls;the huge silence of robust appetites; only broken by the ferociousgrowling of the dogs as they scuffle to sample their bowls by thedoor….

The evening will soon end. By now, there is only the keeper and I infront of the flickering fire. We chat desultorily, occasionallythrowing half-words at each other, peasant-like, with Red Indian stylegrunts, which fizzle out like the last sparks of the dying fire.Eventually, the keeper stands up, lights his lantern, and I hear hisheavy footsteps fade into the night….

III

THE WISH-AND-WAIT!

The wish-and-wait!, what an appropriate name for the lookout, theexpectancy of the hunter lying in wait, and the uncertainty of hours oftotal concentration, waiting and wishing between day and night. Themorning lookout is just before sunrise. There is a lookout posted fromevening until twilight, which is the one I prefer, especially in thismarshland where the swamp water sustains the daylight for so long….

Sometimes the lookout takes place in a tiny, punt, a narrow, keellessboat, which rolls at the drop of a hat. Hidden to peak of his cap bythe reeds, the hunter, lying on the bottom of the boat, keeps an eyeout for ducks. The gun barrel and the dog's head sniff the air. The dogcatches mosquitoes or else stretches out its huge paws and pitches thewhole shooting-match over and fills it with water. All this looking outis a bit too complicated for my tyro's taste. Most of the time, I go tothe wish-and-wait on foot, paddling deep into the swamp in enormousleather waders. I move slowly and carefully for fear of getting stuckin the mud. I try to avoid stinking reeds and jumping frogs….

Happily, an islet of tamarisks finally appears and I can get myselfonto some dry land. The keeper did me the honour of leaving his dogwith me, a huge Great Pyrenees with a long, white, shaggy coat, a primehunter and fishing dog, whose presence never ceases to intimidate mesomewhat. When a water fowl comes within firing range, the dog has anironical way of looking at me and throwing his head back like adisdainful arty type, and with his two long ears flopping in front ofhis eyes, he freezes, and wags his tail, in a perfect mime ofimpatience, as if to say:

—Shoot… go on then, shoot!

I obey. I miss. So, he lies down full length, and yawns and stretcheshimself out giving the appearance, for all the world, of being tired,discouraged, and insolent….

Oh! Very well, then, you're right, I am a bad shot. What reallyfascinates me about the lookout is the sunset; the dimming light takingrefuge in the water of the shining lakes, which transform the grey tintof the overcast sky into a fine shade of polished silver. I love thesmell of the water, and the mysterious rustling of long leaves andinsects in the reeds. Every so often, a darker note sounds and rollsacross the sky like the sound of a conch shell. It's the boom of thebittern as it plunges its huge, wader's beak to the bed of theswamp…. Noisy crane flights startle me and I can hear the movement oftheir feathered, plumed wings. Then—nothing. It's the night, the deep,dark night, with just a glimmer of daylight left lingering on thewater….

Suddenly, I feel sort of nervous unease, as if someone was behind me. Iturn round and am reassured by the sight of that ubiquitous travellingcompanion of fine nights, the moon; a low, large, and full moon risingcalmly and with a visible motion which slows gradually as it risesabove the horizon.

A moonlit patch is already clearly visible nearby, then another, thenone further off…. Eventually the whole marsh is bathed in moonlight,and the least tuft of grass gives a shadow. The lookout is over, thebirds can see us—we have to return to base. We walk bathed in adusting of weak, blue light; each step we make in the open water andthe irrigation channels stirs the horde of reflected stars and themoonlight that penetrates the depths of the water.

IV

RED AND WHITE.

Within rifle range of