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poem of the purple cow. Another amusing freak of nature. Hundreds of beetles had evidently been celebrating [[strikethrough]] on [[/strikethrough]] a holiday, it may have been on the lines of an Irish wake, for many, many were rolling about or kicking their legs in the air [[strikethrough]] like [[/strikethrough]] as the new born baby would. They seemed happy. It was a fine day. Heard a cuckoo and painted a study of reflections, in a small lake. The country was beautiful, the village quaint. France has a paintable atmosphere. Saturday we had another party at the house. A young French girl played the piano marvelously. She was a nervous, dreamy girl. Her mother a sweet faced woman Protestant and has been in South Africa as a missionary. I walked home with them. They invited me to call, with Daniels. Played ball Saturday afternoon. Really played short stop, but the [[?]] called it