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"For a long time," says M. Floquet, "there was talk in Normandy of the Count of Marance, who, in the middle of a severe winter, flying with thirty-nine others on board a fishing-smack, encountered a tempest, and remained a long time at sea without provisions, dying of hunger, he, the countess, and all the passengers, amongst whom were pregnant women, mothers with infants at the breast, without resources of any sort, reduced for lack of everything to a little melted snow, with which they moistened the parched lips of the dying babes."
Eyes blue as the azure shells; hair flashing out golden gleams, like that of Pyrrha, when she braided hers so featly for the coming of some ambrosial boy. "I must marry you, Marance," said I, jocularly, to the damsel, as I jumped her out of the canoe, "I shall marry you when we get back." It is good to live in a marsh.
Blue and yellow all, the sky and the sedge-rows, the calm lake and the canoe, the plashing basswood-leaves and the oval, azure shells. Also Marance, the voyageur's buxom young daughter, who came with us, today, commissioned to cull herbs of wondrous properties among the vine-tangled thickets of the islands. Blue and yellow.
No fast boarding-house women there, lurking for the unwary; no breaches of promise; "no nothing" in the old-man-trap line. Abjure fast boarding-houses, you silly old bachelors, and go to grass in a marsh! Marance laughed merrily, as she tripped away; then, turning, she said, "But what if I never get back? I may lose myself in these lonely places, and never be heard of again."
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