The boatman threw a warm covering on me, bade me sleep, and began a monotonous boat-song.
I soon slept.
When I awoke it was late in the morning, for the bright October sun overhead was making the rapid Garonne quiver in a sheen of golden light.
I found we had made good progress, and were not many hours from our destination.

I found it inexpressibly pleasant to float down that bright river, as it carried me to new scenes, which love, hope, and inexperience painted in pleasing colors.

My feet were sufficiently painful for me to be glad to lie idly among the piles of cabbages and while the time in day-dreams.

Aged confessors might go forth sighing, "How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land ?" but to the young and buoyant, change of occupation and foreign travel have great allurement, even when rudely come by.
The boatman seemed an honest poor fellow.

Sometimes he exchanged greetings and jokes with other boatmen; sometimes he sang snatches of plaintive songs, such as "N'erount tres freres N'erount tres freres N'haut qu'une soeur a marida:" for his mother was from Languedoc.