[The Ink-Stain by Rene Bazin]@TWC D-Link bookThe Ink-Stain CHAPTER VII 3/30
I added in a whisper, "The blackbird's pool!" He smiled, and off we went. Again, as of old, our destination was St.Germain--not the town, nor the Italian palace, nor yet the terrace whence the view spreads so wide over the Seine, the country dotted with villas, to Montmartre blue in the distance--not these, but the forest.
"Our forest," we call it; for we know all its young shoots, all its giant trees, all its paths where poachers and young lovers hide.
With my eyes shut I could find the blackbird's pool, the way to which was first shown us by a deer. Imagine at thirty paces from an avenue, a pool--no, not a pool (the word is incorrect), nor yet a pond--but a fountain hollowed out by the removal of a giant oak.
Since the death of this monarch the birches which its branches kept apart have never closed together, and the fountain forms the centre of a little clearing where the moss is thick at all seasons and starred in August with wild pinks.
The water, though deep, is deliciously clear.
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