THE SUB-PREFECT 87

and coolness of the woodland, lifts the
tails of his coat and seats himself on
the moss at the foot of a young oak,
laying his opera hat on the grass; then
he opens his big writing-case of flowered
shagreen on his knee and takes out a
large sheet of official paper.

‘He is an artist,’ says the tom-tit.

‘No,’ says the bullfinch, ‘he is
not an artist, because he wears silver
breeches. It is more likely that he is
a prince.’

‘He is probably a prince,’ says the
bullfinch.

‘Neither an artist nor a prince,’ says
an old nightingale, who sang all one
season in the garden of the sous-pre-
fecture. . . . ‘I know what it is; it is
a Sub-Prefect.’

And all the little wood whispered,

‘It is a Sub-Prefect! It is a Sub-
Prefect !’

‘How bald he is,’ said a crested
lark.

The violets asked,