ABSTRACT
WHEN we arrived we were picking wild strawberries at the railside; now, that we are on the point of departure, we have already cleared the Sestrol's pergola of all its white grapes. There only remain the diseased maroon bunches and the little black ones which “taste like bugs” but which make excellent wine. We have seen the summer from its beginning to its end, the acacias have passed from bloom to the sere, the yellow leaf, the first walnuts have come in, hard shelled, damp and bitter, only the chestnuts sealed in their hedgehog husks are still profiting by the yet warm autumnal sun.
