All is orderly and beautiful--every thing is charming to the eye.
We had such glimpses of the Rhone gliding along between its grassy banks; of cosy cottages buried in flowers and shrubbery; of quaint old red-tiled villages with mossy medieval cathedrals looming out of their midst; of wooded hills with ivy-grown towers and turrets of feudal castles projecting above the foliage; such glimpses of Paradise, it seemed to us, such visions of fabled fairyland! We knew then what the poet meant when he sang of: "-- thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France!" And it is a pleasant land.

No word describes it so felicitously as that one.

They say there is no word for "home" in the French language.

Well, considering that they have the article itself in such an attractive aspect, they ought to manage to get along without the word.

Let us not waste too much pity on "homeless" France.