Pool Canvas file:///C:/Users/MOHA/Desktop/MacroeconomicsThird Edition ©2012...

Macroeconomics Krugman 3rd Edition Test Bank

Full link at: https://testbankbell.com/product/macroeconomics-krugman-3rd-edition-test-bank/

COURSES > C > CONTROL PANEL > POOL MANAGER > POOL CANVAS

Pool Canvas

Add, modify, and remove questions. Select a question type from the Add Question drop-down list and click Go to add
questions. Use Creation Settings to establish which default options, such as feedback and images, are available for
question creation.

Add Creation Settings

Name TestBanks Chapter 03: Supply and Demand

Description Question pool for TestBanks Chapter 03: Supply and Demand
Instructions
Add Question Here

Multiple Choice 0 points

Question
The market for corn in Kansas is considered to be competitive. This means there are
buyers and sellers of corn in Kansas.
Answer many; few
few; many
many; many
few; few
Add Question Here

Multiple Choice 0 points

Question
The law of demand states that other things equal:
Answer as the price increases, the quantity demanded will increase.
as the price decreases, the demand curve will shift to the right.
as the price increases, the demand will decrease.
as the price increases, the quantity demanded will decrease.

Add Question Here

Multiple Choice 0 points

Question
A negative relationship between the quantity demanded and price is called the law of:
Answer demand.
increasing returns.
market clearing.
supply.
Add Question Here

Multiple Choice 0 points

Question
Which of the following examples illustrates the law of demand?

1 of 108 12/8/2012 10:31

Pool Canvas file:///C:/Users/MOHA/Desktop/MacroeconomicsThird Edition ©2012...

Answer An increase in tuition encourages more students to enroll in college because

the quality of education has risen.
Consumers buy more personal computers because prices have fallen.
Oil companies drill for new sources of oil because oil prices are higher.

2 of 108 12/8/2012 10:31

Pool Canvas file:///C:/Users/MOHA/Desktop/MacroeconomicsThird Edition ©2012...

Fewer people play golf because incomes are lower.

Add Question Here

Multiple Choice 0 points

Question
illustrates an inverse relationship between price and quantity.
Answer A demand curve
A supply curve
A production possibility frontier
Equilibrium

Add Question Here

Multiple Choice 0 points

Question
A negative relationship between the quantity demanded and price is called the law of
.
Answer demand
marginality
efficiency
supply
Add Question Here

Multiple Choice 0 points

Question
The law of demand is illustrated by a demand curve that is:
Answer horizontal.
downward sloping.
vertical.
upward sloping.

Add Question Here

Multiple Choice 0 points

Question
The law of demand implies that:
Answer consumers are not responsive to price changes.
consumers will buy more at lower prices.
sellers will offer more on the market at higher prices.
sellers will offer less on the market at lower prices.

Add Question Here

Multiple Choice 0 points

Question
The apples will decrease when apple prices rise.
Answer demand for
quantity demanded of
supply of
equilibrium of
3 of 108 12/8/2012 10:31
 Another random document
un-related content on Scribd:
Heaven, and quick, prompt, and swift as an arrow she fell to the earth; then
with her little beak she buried the bright spark of sunshine in the frozen
ground, and, oh, how glad it was to feel it!” My story came to an end, and it
was Glodie’s turn to tell one; then when we got outside the town, I took her
on my back as we climbed the hill. The sky is gray and the snow creaks
under our wooden shoes; the delicate little skeletons of the trees and bushes
are all wadded with white, and the smoke mounts up straight from the
cottage chimneys slow and blue. There is no sound but the chirp of my little
frog,—but here we are at the top. Below at our feet lies my town, wrapped
about by the lazy Yonne and the trifling Beuvron, like silver ribbons,
covered with snow, frozen, chilled and shivering, yet somehow it warms my
heart only to look at the place.
City of bright reflections and rolling hills, the soft lines of tilled slopes
surround you like the twisted straw of a nest. The undulations of five or six
ranges of wooded mountains in the distance are faintly blue like the sea, but
it is not the perfidious element which overthrew Ulysses and his fleet. Here
are no storms, no ambuscades; all is calm, save that here and there a breath
seems to swell the breast of a hill. From the crest of one wave to the other,
the roads run deliberately straight, leaving, as it were, a wake behind them,
and beyond the edge of the waters, far away the spires of St. Marie
Madeleine of Vézelay rise like masts. Close by, in a bend of the Yonne, you
can see the rocks of Basseville sticking up through the underbrush like
boars’ tusks, and in the center of the circle of hills the town, carelessly
adorned, leans over the water with her gardens, her buildings, her rags, and
her jewels. Here is filth; but here also is the harmony of her long limbs, and
her head crowned with the pierced tower. You see the snail admires his
shell. The chimes of the church float up from the valley and their pure
voices spread like a crystal flood through the thin clear air. As I stand
happily drinking in the music, suddenly a ray of sunshine breaks through
the gray mantle which hides the sky, and Glodie claps her hands, crying:
“Grandad, I hear him—the lark, the lark!” Her dear little fresh voice made
me laugh as I kissed her and said:
“I hear him too, my sweet little spring Lark!”
 II
THE SIEGE
OR
THE LAMB, THE SHEPHERD, AND THE
WOLF
“Three lambs of Chamoux can put to flight
Any wolf who comes in the night.”
M cellar will soon be empty, for the soldiers whom our lord the Duke of
Nevers sent to defend us have tapped my last cask, so there is no time to be
lost. I must drink with them. Taken in the right spirit, I do not object to
being ruined, and it is not by any means the first time, but God send it may
be the last! The soldiers, good fellows that they are, felt worse than I did
when I told them that the liquor was running low. Some of my neighbors
take such things tragically, but that is not my way. I have been too often to
the play in the course of my life to be impressed by clowns. Since I was
born into this world, how many of these masqueraders I have seen! Swiss,
German, Gascons, Lorrainers; all dogs of war, with harness on their back
and arms at their side; victual swallowers, hungry hounds, always ready to
devour us fellows. No one can tell for what they are fighting. Today it is for
the King; tomorrow for the League; now for the Black-beetles; now for the
Protestants; but one side is as good as another. The best of them is not
worth the powder it would take to shoot them. What difference does it make
to us which robber ruffles it at court? And as for the way they appeal to
Heaven, ye gods and little fishes! The Lord is old enough to know what to
do. If your hide itches, scratch yourself. God is not left-handed that He
should need you, and He acts as He pleases. But the worst of all is when
they make it out that I too must try to pull the wool over His eyes! With all
due reverence, Lord, I can say without boasting, You and I meet several
times in the twenty-four hours; that is, if the good old French saying is true,
“He who can good wine afford has a chance to see the Lord!” But these
frauds say something else that would never enter my head. They say that I
know Thee like a brother; that I am to carry out Thy will; but Thou wilt do
me the justice to admit that if I leave Heaven in peace I only ask that it will
do as much for me. Each of us has enough to do to keep his own house in
order, Thou in Thy big world, and I in my little one. Since Thou hast made
me free, Lord, Thou shouldst be free also! But these fools want me to mix
myself up in Thy concerns, to speak in Thy name, to decide how men are to
take Thy Sacraments, and if they do otherwise, to declare them my enemies
and Thine. Mine indeed! By no means; I have none; for all men are my
friends. Let them fight, then, if it likes them, I am out of the game;—that is
if they will let me alone, but that is just what the rascals will not do. If I will
not be the enemy of one of them they will both set on me, so between two
fires I must be hit. Here goes then! I will get to fighting myself, for I would
rather on the whole be first anvil and then hammer, than anvil all the time. I
wish some one would tell me why such brutes came into the world?
marauders, politicians, great nobles, who bleed our France while they blow
her trumpet and stick their fingers in her pocket. They are not content to
devour our own substance, but they must needs attack the stores of others.
They threaten Germany, cast the eye of longing on Italy, and even poke
their noses into the harem of the Grand Turk! They would like to absorb
half the earth, they who would not know enough to grow cabbages on it!
Never mind, old boy, do not let us fret over it, since all is for the best as it is
until the happy day when we can make it better in the shortest possible
time. It is a poor beast that is of no use, and I heard a story once about the
good Lord;—(Pardon, Almighty, my head is full of Thee today)—He was
walking with Peter in one of our suburbs, Béyant,[1] and a woman sat
cooling her heels on her doorstep. She looked so bored that our Father, out
of the goodness of His heart, drew a hundred fleas from his pocket and
threw them to her, saying, “There is something to amuse yourself with, my
daughter!” The woman roused herself to see what she could catch, and
every time she caught one of the beasts she laughed for joy.
Through this same charity, no doubt, Heaven has bestowed on us those big
two-legged beasts who shear our wool. They keep us busy, so let us be
joyful. Vermin is a sign of health, they say, (and our masters are certainly
vermin), so I say again, be joyful, my friends, for if that is true no one is
healthier than we are. Let me whisper a word in your ear; we shall have the
best of it if we are patient; cold and frost, good-for-nothings at court or in
camp, will have their day. They too will pass, but the good ground remains
and we are there to enrich it. One crop will put all to rights, meanwhile let
us suck up the bottom of my cask, if only to make room for the vintage of
next year.

My daughter, Martine, said to me one day, “You are a braggart. To hear you
one would think that you only work with your mouth, idling, gossiping like
a bell-clapper, yawning, and staring; you pretend to live only for feasting,
and are ready to drink up the sea; yet really you cannot be happy one day
without work. You want people to think you are careless, wasteful, and idle
as a cock-chafer; you pretend not to count what goes into your purse nor
what comes out of it, but it would make you ill if your day was not marked
off hour by hour like a striking clock, and you know to a penny what you
have spent since last Easter, and the man does not live who ever got ahead
of you. Dear old stupid head, innocent lamb that he is! ‘Three lambs of
Chamoux can put to flight any wolf who comes in the night.’”
I laughed, but did not answer Madame Saucy-Tongue. Besides, the child is
right, though she ought not to say so, but a woman only hides what she
knows nothing about. It is true that she understands me, for did I not make
her?
Come, Colas Breugnon, you may as well confess you commit many follies,
but you are not a fool. Like every one else, by Jove, you have a simpleton
up your sleeve who shows when you like, but he is tucked away out of sight
when you need a clear head and free hands. Like all Frenchmen, you have
the sense of reason and order so firmly fixed in your noddle that you can let
yourself go safely. The only danger is for those poor fools who look at you
with an open mouth and try to imitate you. Fine speeches, sounding verse,
daring projects, are all enjoyable. They exalt and kindle the soul. But we
only burn up our chips, and leave the big logs in order on the wood-pile.
My reason sits at ease and looks on at the freaks of my imagination, and all
for my own amusement. The world is my theater, and without stirring from
my seat, I am the play; I can applaud Matamore or Francatrippa; I witness
tourneys and royal processions, I shout “At him again!” when a man gets
his head cracked all for our good pleasure, and to add to it, I pretend to take
part in the farce and to believe in it only just enough to keep up the joke. No
more, you may be sure. That is the way to listen to fairy tales and not to
them only! There is Some One up there above the clouds for whom we have
a great respect when the procession passes through our streets with cross
and banner, chanting the Oremus; we drape the walls of our houses with
white—but between ourselves?—Shut up, chatterer, you go too far! Be
deaf, Lord, to my folly, and accept my humble service.
The end of February.
An ass having eaten the grass in the meadow, said, “There is no further
need to watch it,” and so went to eat (I mean watch) in another field near
by. The garrison of the Duke of Nevers left us today. I was really proud of
our cookery when I looked at them, for they were as fat as seals. We parted
with smiles in our hearts and on our lips; they with the kindest wishes for
the next season, hoping our crops would be good and our vines safe from
the frost.
“Work hard, dear uncle,” said my guest, the Sergeant Fiacre Bolacre, (it is
his pet name for me and one which I deserve, for that relation gives a good
ration.) “Go prune your vines, no matter how much trouble it costs you, and
next St. Martin’s Day we will come back to drink the wine.” Gallant
fellows! Always ready to help an honest man with his bottle.
Now that they are gone, what a weight is off our shoulders! The neighbors
are carefully uncovering their little hiding places. They have gone about for
the last few days with long faces complaining of hunger as if a wolf were
gnawing at their vitals, and now from the straw of the garret, or the earth of
the cellar, they have dug out something to feed the beast. Those who
bewailed their destitute state the loudest, the worst beggars of them all,
found means to tuck their best wine away in some corner. I don’t know how
it happened, but scarcely had my guest, Fiacre Bolacre, left me, (I went
with him to the end of the Jews’ quarter,) when I suddenly remembered a
small cask of Chablis left by mistake under the dunghill in a good warm
place. Of course this upset me dreadfully! You can easily understand that,
but when harm is done, if it is well done, one must bear it as best one can,
and I bear it well. “Bolacre, my dear nephew, you don’t know what nectar
you have lost, ah-h! It is not all loss to you though, my good friend, for
here’s your health in it!”
We all began visiting from house to house, showing what we had found in
our cellars, congratulating each other, and winking like the Roman Augurs.
We spoke also of our injuries and losses; (losses of our lasses,) and as
sometimes the misfortunes of one’s neighbors are an amusing consolation,
we all inquired solicitously for the health of Vincent Pluviaut’s wife. (By an
extraordinary chance, after a body of troops has passed through the town
this brave Frenchwoman usually has to let out her belt.)
We congratulated Pluviaut, and praised him for his public services in these
trying times, and by way of a joke, meaning no harm, I gave him a friendly
tap, telling him he was lucky to have a house full now that all the others
were empty. Every one laughed, of course, but not too loud, just enough to
be heard, but Pluviaut did not much like it, and told me I had better look
after my own wife. “Ah,” said I, “as far as she is concerned I may sleep in
peace. No one is likely to rob me of my treasure.” And, do you know, they
all agreed with me!
Feast days will soon be upon us, so, though somewhat short of means, we
must live up to our reputation and that of the town. What would the world
say if Shrove-Tuesday caught Clamecy without its justly celebrated meat-
balls? You can hear the grease frying, and sniff the delicious fragrance in
the streets. The flapjacks fairly hop from the pan for my little Glodie! Now
the drums go “rub-a-dub,” and the flutes “twee-wee,” as amid cheers and
shouts the “Gentlemen from Judæa” come on their car to visit “Rome.”[2]
First appears the band; then the halberdiers, and the crowd actually falls
back before the great noses they wear. Some are shaped like trumpets, or
lances, there are snouts like hunting-horns or pea-shooters, noses stuck full
of spikes, like a chestnut burr, or with a bird perched on the tip. They hustle
the passers-by, and tickle the ribs of the squealing girls; and at last comes
the Nose King, scattering all before him like a battering-ram with his great
proboscis which rests on a gun-carriage like a bombard.
Then comes the car of Lent, Emperor of the Fish-eaters. Their masks are
pale green, skinny, and chilled-looking. They shiver under hoods, or heads
of fishes. One has a perch, or a carp, in each hand; another brandishes a
gudgeon stuck on a fork; a third wears a hat like a pike’s head, with a roach
dangling from its mouth, and little fishes falling all around. It is enough to
give a man a surfeit. Some stick their fingers into their jaws and try to force
down eggs too big to swallow. To right and left, high up on the car, are
masks of owls and monks and fishermen dangling their lines over the heads
of urchins, who jump up like goats to catch at what may be sweetmeats or
perhaps only dirt rolled in sugar. Behind is a dancing devil, dressed like a
cook, waving a saucepan and big spoon. Six souls of the damned stick their
grinning heads through the rungs of a ladder behind the car, and the devil
keeps thrusting his spoonful of disgusting stew at them.
Hurrah! Here come the conquerors, heroes of the day! On a throne built of
hams, under a canopy of smoked tongues, comes the queen of the Meat-
Balls, crowned with saveloys, while her pudding fingers play coquettishly
with the sausages around her neck. She is escorted by her aids, black and
white puddings, and little Clamecy balls. They make a fine appearance, as
their Colonel Riflandouille leads them to victory, armed with fat and greasy
spits and larding needles. I like best of all those dignified old fellows with
bellies like a great soup-pot, or with a body made of bread crust, bearing
gifts like the Magi: a pig’s head, a bottle of black wine, or mustard from
Dijon. Now to the sound of brass cymbals, skimmers, and dishpans, comes
the King of Dupes, mounted on a donkey, and greeted with shouts of
laughter. It is our friend, Vincent Pluviaut, who has been elected. Riding
backwards, a turban on his head, a goblet in his hand, he is listening to his
body-guard of horned imps, who prance along with pitchforks or rods on
their shoulders, shouting out in good plain French the tale of his glory. He is
too wise to betray his pride and tosses off a bumper with a careless air, but
when they pass a house as distinguished as his own, he cries, “Here’s your
good health, Brother!” as he raises his glass.
The procession ends with lovely Spring; a young girl, fresh and smiling,
with smooth brow and fair curling locks crowned with yellow primroses,
and wearing across her slender breast a chain of green catkins plucked from
the young nut trees. The pouch by her side and the basket in her hands are
brimming with good things. Her delicate eyebrows arch over her wide blue
eyes; her sharp little teeth show as she opens her mouth like a round “O” to
sing in her treble pipe about the swallow who will soon be here again. Four
white oxen draw her chariot, and by her side are plump maids, well-
developed, rounded and graceful, and little girls at the awkward age,
sticking out like young trees in all directions. Something is lacking to each
one; they are no beauties as yet, but toothsome morsels for the wolf in
future none the less. Some carry migratory birds in cages, and some dip
their hands in the basket of Spring and shower treasures on the crowd;
cakes, sweetmeats and surprises, out of which fall hats and vests, mottoes
telling your fortune, lovers’ couplets, horns of plenty, or of ill-luck.
When they come to the market-place, near the tower, the maids jump from
the car and dance with the clerks and students, while Shrove-Tuesday, Lent,
and King Pluviaut continue their triumphal progress, pausing every few feet
to chaff the people, or toss off a glass,
“Let your goblets chink—
Drink, Drink, Drink!
Shall we go without it?
No!
See the bottom of your glass
Or we shall write you down an ass!”
After all, too much soaking is bad for one’s tongue and one’s wit, so I leave
friend Vincent and his escort drawing more corks, and make for the open
fields. The day is really too fine to waste between walls. My old friend
Chamaille, the vicar, has come up from his village in a little donkey-cart to
dine with the Archdeacon of St. Martin. As he asked me to go with him for
part of the way back, we climb into the tail of the cart, little Glodie and I,
and off goes the donkey! She is so small that I suggest we shall take her up
on the seat between us. As the road stretches out long and white, the sun
looks drowsy, as if he meant to warm his own chimney corner more than
ours. The donkey drowses also and stops as if to think, so the vicar shouts
indignantly, in his great voice like a bell, “Madelon!” Donkey jumps, stirs
her spindle-shanks, zigzags from one rut to another, then stops again to
meditate, regardless of our objurgations. “Beast of ill-omen, if you had not
the sign of the Cross on your back, I would break this stick on you,” roars
the vicar, all the time basting her flanks with his cane.
We stopped to rest ourselves at the inn, just where the road turns to go down
to the white hamlet of Armes which lies looking at its fair reflection in the
water. Near by in the field we see some girls dancing round an old nut tree
whose great withered branches stretch toward the pale sky. They have been
carrying Shrove-Tuesday pancakes to the magpies. “Come and dance too!”
they cry.
“Look, Glodie, look at the magpie ’way up there; look at her white breast
over the edge of the nest! She is peeping out to see what she can see, and
she has made her little house open all around so that nothing can escape her
sharp eye and her chattering tongue. The wind blows through it, so that she
is wet and cold, but as long as she sees all that goes on, she is satisfied.
Now she is out of humor and seems to say, ‘Rude people, be off with your
presents. Do you think if I wanted your cakes I could not pick them up in
your very houses? There is no fun in eating things that are given to you;
stolen dainties are the only ones I relish.’”
“Grandad, why do they give her pancakes all tied up with ribbons? Why do
they bring good-wishes to that old pilferer?”
“Because, darling, in this world it is better to be on good terms with
evildoers.”
“What’s that, Colas Breugnon? What idea are you putting in the child’s
head?” growled the vicar.
“I am not holding it up for her admiration. I only tell her that is what every
one does, you yourself, vicar, among the first. Don’t stare at me like that,
you know when you have a parishioner who knows everything, sees
everything, pokes her nose into everything, and is as full of spite as a nut is
full of meat you would stuff her mouth with cakes, if that would keep her
quiet.”
“Lord, if that were enough,” sighed the vicar. “I am really not fair to old
magpie, she is better than some women, and her tongue is sometimes of
use!”
“What is it good for, Grandfather?”
“She screams when the wolf is near.”
And at these words, all of a sudden the bird begins to cry, swear, and
blaspheme. She flaps her wings, flies, and pours out abuse toward I don’t
know who or what down in the valley near Armes. At the edge of the wood
her feathered companions, Charlot the jay, and the crow Colas, answer
sharply in the same irritated key. The villagers laugh and cry, “Wolf!” No
one believes it, but still they think they will go and look (it is good to trust,
but better to know), and what do you think they see? A band of armed men
coming up the hill at a trot. We know them only too well; they are those
rascals, the soldiers of Vézelay, who knowing our town is off its guard,
think they will catch the bird on its nest. (Not this old magpie, however.)
We did not stop to look at them, as you may well believe! Every man for
himself, was the cry, and we all tumbled over each other. We took to our
heels by the road, across the fields; some on all fours, and some sliding on
the hinder side of their anatomy. We three jumped into the donkey-cart; and,
as if she understood it all, off went Madelon like an arrow from the bow.
The vicar forgot in his excitement the consideration due to a donkey which
has a cross marked on its back, and belabored her with all his might. We
rushed along through a crowd of people screaming like blackbirds, and
entered Clamecy first by a head, covered with dust and glory, but with the
rest of the fugitives hard on our heels. Madelon scarcely touched the ground
as we flew through Béyant at full gallop, the cart bouncing, the vicar
beating, and shouting at the top of his lungs, “The enemy is upon us!”
People laughed at first as they saw us flying past them, but it did not take
them long to catch the idea, and the town was soon like an ant-heap when
you thrust a stick into it. Every one got to work, running in and out. Men
armed themselves; women packed up their goods, piling things into baskets
and wheelbarrows; and all the folks in the suburbs, abandoning their homes,
fled to the shelter of the town walls. The masquers rushed to the ramparts,
still wearing their costumes, masks, horns, claws, and paunches; some as
Gargantua, some as Beelzebub, armed with gaffs and harpoons; and so
when the advance guard of Vézelay reached the walls, the drawbridges
were raised, and only some poor devils remained on the other side of the
moat, who having nothing to lose made no effort to save it, and poor old
King Pluviaut, deserted by his escort, full as a tick, like the Patriarch Noah,
sat snoring on his beast, holding on by the tail.
Here is where you can see the advantage of having Frenchmen for your
enemies. Germans, Swiss, or English, do their thinking through their fists,
and are so thickheaded that it takes them till Christmas to understand what
was told them on All Saints’ Day. I would not have given a button for poor
Pluviaut’s chance with such people as these. They would have thought we
were playing a joke on them, but no words are necessary between us. If we
come from Lorraine, Touraine, Champagne, or Bretagne, geese from
Beauce, asses from Beaune, or rabbits from Vézelay, a good joke hits us all
in the right spot, no matter how much we may pound and beat each other.
When they caught sight of our old Silenus, their whole camp burst out
laughing. They laughed all over their faces, with their throats, with all their
hearts, and even their stomachs, and by St. Rigobert! to see the way they
laughed set us off too, all along our line. Like Ajax, and Hector the Trojan,
we hurled gay defiance at each other across the moat. Our remarks,
however, had much more snap than theirs. If I were not so busy, I would
write them down, but if you can put up with it, I mean to include them in a
collection I have been making for the last dozen years of the best jokes,
quips, and witticisms that I have heard, said, or read, in the course of my
pilgrimage through this vale of tears. I would not lose it for a kingdom. It
makes me crack my old sides only to think of it. There now! I have made a
great blot on my paper.
When the noise had subsided, it was time to fight; (nothing is so restful
when one has been talked to death), but neither side was keen for it. Their
surprise had failed, and we were well protected. They did not care much
about scrambling up our walls (you may break your bones at that game) but
something had to be done at any cost; it did not matter much what, so a
little powder was burned, some petards let off at random, from which the
sparrows were the only sufferers. We sat with our backs to the wall inside
the parapet, waiting while their plums flew over our heads for the right
moment to discharge our own without taking aim, (there is no sense in
exposing one’s self too much).
When we heard their prisoners squalling we ventured to look out. They had
caught a dozen men and women from Béyant and were beating them as they
stood in a row, with their faces turned to the wall. The poor devils were not
much hurt, but they screamed like curlews. Being safe enough ourselves,
we slipped down along the ramparts and brandished pikes over the walls, on
which we had stuck hams, saveloys, and black-puddings. We could hear the
besiegers uttering yells of hunger and rage, and how that did put new life
into us! To squeeze out the last drop (for there is never too much of a good
thing), when it grew late we set out tables in the open air on the slopes,
sheltered by the wall, and loaded them with victuals and drink. There we
had a noisy feast, singing and drinking to Shrove-Tuesday. The outsiders
nearly went out of their skins with fury, and so that day went off gaily, and
no harm done. There was only one drawback. When Gueneau de
Pousseaux, that big fool! got too mellow, nothing would do but he must
walk on top of the wall with his glass in his hand, just to defy them, and
they knocked his head and his glass into splinters with a musket ball. This
did not much bother us, but to make it even, we wounded one or two of
them, for there can be no festivity, you know, without a little broken
crockery. Chamaille waited till nightfall before leaving the town to go
home. In vain we all said, “Old friend, you risk your neck. Wait here till it’s
all over; God will take care of your parishioners.” He answered:
“My place is with my flock. God would be maimed without me, for I am
truly His right arm. But I will not fail Him, you may swear.”
“I believe you,” said I. “You gave full proof of it when the Huguenots
attacked your church, and you threw a great lump of plaster at their Captain
Papiphage and knocked him over.”
“That was a surprise for him, miscreant that he was,” said he. “For me too,
really. I mean no harm and hate to see blood flow; it disgusts me, but the
devil alone knows what gets into a man when he is among hot-heads. He
becomes a wolf.”
“That is true,” said I, “you lose what little sense you have when you are in a
crowd. A hundred wise men make a fool, and a hundred sheep a wolf. But
tell me, Vicar, how can you reconcile two codes—that of the man who lives
alone with his conscience and wants peace for himself and all the world,
and that of men in the mass, who make a virtue out of war and wickedness.
Which of these is of God?”
“That is a very silly question! Both. Everything comes from God.”
“Well, then He doesn’t know His own mind. Or rather I believe He cannot
do as He likes. It is easy enough to manage one man,—there is no difficulty
about that, but when He has a crowd to deal with, that is another pair of
shoes. What can one do against many? So man falls back on his Mother
Earth, who whispers to him of fleshly things. In the old legend, if you
remember, there are times when men become wolves, and then get into their
old skins again. Ah! my friend, there is more truth in many an old song than
in your Mass-book. Every man in the country wears his wolf skin; States,
Kings, and Ministers may dress themselves up with shepherd’s crooks as
much as they please, and claim descent, like the hypocrites they are, from
your Good Shepherd; they are really all lynxes, bulls, jaws, and bellies,
always crying for food, and for the best of reasons; they must satisfy the
hunger of the earth.”
“You are a raving heathen,” said Chamaille. “God sends the wolves like the
rest, and He does all things well. Did you never hear that the Blessed Virgin
had a little garden where cabbages grew, and Jesus, they say, made the wolf
to keep off the goats and the kids? No doubt He was right, and we can only
bow to His will. Why should we complain of the strong? It would be a
thousand times worse if the weak were raised to power, so in conclusion all
are for the best, sheep and wolves alike. The sheep need the wolves to
protect them, and the wolves need the sheep, still more, for we all must eat.
So now, Colas, off I go to my cabbages.” He confided Madelon tenderly to
my care, tucked up his gown, grasped his cudgel, and made off; though the
night was dark and moonless.
We were not quite so merry for the next few days. We had foolishly stuffed
ourselves the first evening, just to show off and from stupid greediness, so
there was but little left of our provisions. We had to draw in our belts, which
was soon done, but we still had some swagger in us. When the puddings
were all gone, we made some stuffed with bran and tarred strings which we
stuck on a pike and dangled before the enemy. The rogues soon saw
through it, though, for a ball caught one of our puddings fair in the middle,
and who had the laugh on his side then? Not we, I vow, and to cap the
climax when these robbers saw that we were fishing over the top of our
wall, they stretched nets from the locks up and down the river to catch the
fry. Our Archbishop reprimanded them for bad Christians who would not
let us keep Lent, but in vain, so we had to fall back on our own fat.
We might of course have implored the Duke of Nevers to come and help us,
but to tell the truth we were not anxious to have his troops quartered on us
again. It cost less to have the enemy outside the walls than the friend
within, so the best way was to keep quiet as long as we could get along
without them, and the enemy on his side was prudent enough not to send for
them. “Two is company, three is none,” so we began negotiations, but
without undue haste. Both camps led an exemplary life. Early to bed and
late to rise, playing bowls all day and drinking. We yawned more from
boredom than hunger, and we actually slept so much that we grew fat in
spite of our fast. The grown people moved about as little as possible, but it
was hard to keep the children in order. These imps were always running,
crying, or laughing; always on the go and putting themselves in danger.
They would climb the walls, stick out their tongues at the besiegers, and
bombard them with stones. They had batteries of squirts, which they made
from the elder twigs; slings and sticks;—“Here goes. Hit him in the head!”
the little monkeys would cry. Those they struck vowed to be the death of
them, and they called out to us that the first child that poked its nose over
the top of the wall should be shot. We promised to be careful, but the rogues
slipped through our fingers in spite of our scoldings and ear-pullings. Still
water runs deep, so one fine evening, (it makes me tremble only to think of
it!) I heard a squeal, and if you can believe it, there was that little hypocrite
of a Glodie,—witch that she is! my own treasure!—she had slipped down
the bank into the ditch. Oh, Lord, I could have whipped her! I was on the
wall at one bound, and there we all stood craning over. We made a fine
target if the enemy had chosen to shoot at us, but he too was looking at my
darling at the bottom of the ditch. Thanks to the Blessed Virgin, she had
rolled down gently like a little kitten, and sat there among the flowering
grasses, not in the least frightened, and looking up at the two rows of heads
above her. She was laughing and making a nosegay. We all laughed too, and
Monseigneur de Ragny, the enemy’s commander, ordered that no harm be
done to the child, and, good fellow that he was, threw her a bag of sugar-
plums. But you never know what a woman will do next, and while we were
all looking at Glodie, Martine rushed to save her lamb and she too fell down
the bank, running, slipping, and rolling, her skirts turned up over her head.
What a spectacle for the enemy! Immense applause! But nothing daunted,
she hugged and slapped her baby. One of the soldiers, carried away by her
charms, disobeyed his commanding officer, jumped into the ditch and ran
towards her. She stood fast while we threw a broom down to her from the
ramparts, seized it bravely, and marched on the enemy. Whick, whack! The
gallant kept his distance, and fled from the field without sound of trumpets.
Both camps roared with laughter, and we pulled Martine up, triumphant,
with her child in her arms, I on the end of the rope as proud as a peacock.
Since talking is always in season, we took another week for discussion. A
rumor was heard that the Duke of Nevers was coming,—a false alarm, but it
brought us together and a treaty was drawn up on fairly easy terms. We
agreed to pay to the Vézelayans a tenth of our next vintage, for it is always
best to promise for the future; one may never get there, and in any case
much water runs under the bridge first and much wine into our stomachs.
Both sides were satisfied with each other, and most of all with themselves.
Still, it never rains but it pours, and the very next day after the treaty, a sign
appeared in the heavens. About ten o’clock it arose and slid across the field
of stars toward St. Peters-on-the-Height, like a long serpent. It resembled a
sword with a flame on the point, and great tongues of smoke; a hand
seemed to grasp the hilt. You could see the five fingers ending in dreadful
heads; one was a woman with her hair streaming in the wind, and the width
at the hilt of the sword was a span, at the point six or eight rods, and in the
middle exactly three rods and two inches. The color was scarlet and violet,
and inflamed like a wound in the side. We all stood, our eyes raised to
Heaven, our mouths open, our teeth chattering in our heads. In the two
camps the question was “To which one did the warning come?” Each of
course attributed it to the other, and every man shivered, except me. I was
not in the least frightened, for having gone to bed at nine o’clock, I
naturally saw nothing. Regularly as the day comes round, I take medicine
and go to bed early; when the stomach commands I obey without question.
Every one, however, told me all about the portent, so I write it down, for it
is the same as if I had seen it.

As soon as peace was signed, friends and foes betook themselves once more
to feasting, and as by this time we had come to the middle of Lent, we let
ourselves go. It was a great day, I can tell you. Throngs of people came
pouring in from the neighboring villages, bringing their provisions as well
as mouths to eat them with, and tables were spread the whole length of the
ramparts. Three young pigs were served, roasted whole, stuffed with spiced
boar’s meat and heron’s liver. There were hams, smoked and perfumed with
juniper; rabbit and pork pies, simply reeking with garlic and laurel; our own
meat-balls and tripe, pikes and snails, jugged hare so fat that our noses fed
on them first; calves-head that melted in the mouth; and heaps of peppery
lobsters enough to set your throat on fire. On top of all, to cool it off, salads
with plenty of vinegar; and then bumpers of the best vintages from
Chapotte, Mandre, and Vaufilloux. For dessert we had curds and cream to
slip gently down our throats, and biscuits with which we sopped up a full
glass at one mouthful. As long as a scrap remained not one of us let go, and
the Lord gave us strength to squeeze all these dishes and drinks into our
small bread-baskets. There was a great contest between two eating
champions. The Vézelayans put up their hermit—Court-Oreille from St.
Martin’s at Vézelay; (he was the man, we are told, who first discovered that
an ass must have his tail in the air before he can bray); ours, (hermit, I mean
not ass,) was Dom Hennequin, who declared that he had such a hatred for
cold water that he believed he must have been a carp or a pike in some
former existence and been forced to swallow too much of it. Well, when the
Vézelayans and Clamecyans left off eating at last, they loved each other
more than they did at first; since a man’s fine qualities come out strong at
table, and he who loves good cheer is my brother. While we were settling
our dinner on the best of good terms, what should turn up but the re-
enforcements sent by our Duke to protect us? We burst out laughing, and
both sides politely requested them to go home. What could they do? So they
went off rather crestfallen, like dogs chased by sheep, while we hugged
each other and cried out:
“What fools we were to fight for these people! Our protectors, forsooth!
They would stir up enemies if we had none, in faith, just for the sake of
defending us. God keep us from our keepers, we can look out for ourselves.
Silly sheep that we are, we should be safe enough if wolves were all that
threatened us,—but who will save us from the shepherd?”
 III
THE VICAR OF BRÈVES
Early in April.
A soon as the roads were clear of our unwelcome visitors, I decided to go
at once and see Chamaille in his village; not that I was really anxious about
him, for he knows how to take good care of himself, but all the same
nothing is so reassuring as to see with one’s own eyes,—besides my legs
wanted stretching. So off I started without a word to any one. The river
flowed at the foot of the wooded hills and I followed the river, whistling as
I went. A soft spring rain came pattering down, now ceasing, now falling
again, dropping like beads from the young leaves, and in the thickets I
could hear the cry of an enamored squirrel. Geese were feeding in the
meadow, the blackbirds sang fit to crack their throats, and the little thrush
trilled tipu’ti tipu’,—Paillard, the notary at Dornecy, is a great friend of
mine, so I thought I would stop and see him, for he, Chamaille, and I are as
inseparable as the Graces. I found him in his study making notes on the
weather, his recent dreams, and the political situation; close beside him lay
the manual “De Legibus,” and also the “Prophecies of Nostradamus.” When
a man spends his life shut up between four walls, his mind is all the more
eager to fly forth into dream spaces and the forests of memory; and since he
cannot rule this terrestrial ball, he tries to peer into the future of the world.
They say all is known beforehand, and I can well believe it, but I must
confess that I have never had much luck in predicting the future until after
the event. Dear old Paillard fairly shone with joy when he saw me, and the
house shook with our peals of laughter. I love the very sight of him. He is a
little man, inclined to stoutness; his broad face is pockmarked, his nose red,
and his little eyes dance with cunning. He is always growling and
complaining of everything and everybody, but at bottom good-natured and
full of fun, and more of a joker really than I am myself. He loves to get off
the most awful whoppers with a perfectly straight face, and at table he is a
sight to behold invoking Comus and Momus, singing a good song, and
emptying his bottle. He was enchanted to see me, and there we stood like
two children hand in hand. His are large and thick, but adroit, like the rest
of him, and clever as the devil with all kinds of tools. He is a bookbinder
and carpenter, and declares that everything in his house is the work of his
own hands; not much beauty perhaps to boast of, but good or bad it is all
characteristic of him. He began as usual by finding fault right and left, and
so to take the opposite side I praised the world in general, for it is a favorite
joke of his to call me “so much the better,” and I retort by calling him “so
much the worse.” He always has many complaints to make of his clients,
and with some reason, for they are by no means prompt in the matter of
payment; some of them have owed him money for thirty-five years and he
has taken no steps to collect his bills, however much it would be to his
interest. Some of his debtors pay when they happen to think of it, but
generally in kind; a dozen eggs, a pair of chickens;—that is the usual
custom, and it would be thought insulting if he insisted on his money. I
suppose he would do the same in their place so he submits, growling.
Luckily he has enough to live on, a nice round sum getting rounder every
year, for he is an old bachelor with few expenses, no extravagances, and as
for the pleasures of the table, nature has spread her board lavishly in our
fields. We have vineyards, orchards, game, and fish in abundance, so there
are but two ways for Paillard to spend his money: he buys books, which he
likes to show at a distance, for he is chary of lending, and then there are the
new spectacles from Holland with which he loves to look at the lady in the
moon, sly dog.
He has put up a sort of scaffolding in the roof of his house among the
chimneys and from there he carefully studies the movements of the
heavenly bodies, and tries to discover the course of our destinies, little as he
understands them. To tell the truth he does not really believe in all this, but
he likes to persuade himself that he does, and there I agree with him, for
what can be more charming than to look out at the stars as if from our
window, just as we see fair ladies in the streets,—we imagine a story about
them, some romantic adventure, it may not be true, but it is at least amusing
—— We had much to say to each other about the portent; that terrible
bloody sword which had been seen in the heavens during the night of the
previous Sunday and each interpreted it according to his own idea, insisting
most positively that his view was the right one. After all we found that
neither of us had so much as set eyes on it, for the astrologer unluckily had
chosen that very evening to fall asleep at his instrument; and thus we were
perfectly delighted to find ourselves companions in misfortune and
foolishness. Having determined not to mention this incident to Chamaille,
we set out across country, admiring the young shoots on the bushes, the
pink buds, the birds making their nests, and a hawk slowly circling above
the plain. We had a great deal of fun as we went along, over an old joke that
we had once played on Chamaille; we shut a blackbird up in a cage, and
worked day and night to teach him a Huguenot song, and when he had it
well in his head, we turned him loose in the vicar’s garden. His new
accomplishment was soon picked up by all the other blackbirds in the
village, and they sang so loud as to disturb Chamaille at his devotions. He
swore, crossing himself, that the devil was loose in his garden, then tried to
exorcise him, and finally took aim with an arquebus from behind the
shutters, and shot the evil spirit; but in the bottom of his heart he must have
had some doubts, for having killed the devil he then proceeded to eat him.
Our walking and talking brought us at last to Brèves, which seemed to be
half asleep. We peeped into the houses as we went by; the sun was
streaming in through the open doors, but we did not see a human being
except one urchin enjoying the fresh air on the edge of a ditch. We strolled
on arm in arm through the narrow street, encumbered with straw and filth,
till, as we got near the center of the town, we began to hear a buzzing like
the sound of a swarm of angry bees; and when we came out on the market-
place it was packed with people gesticulating and shouting at the top of
their lungs. Chamaille was standing at his garden gate purple with rage, and
he too was screaming and shaking his fist in the faces of his parishioners.
All this was perfectly unintelligible to us, for we could only catch a word
here and there in the midst of the tumult of voices. “Caterpillars,—locusts,
—field-mice,—cum Spiritu tuo!” Here Chamaille’s voice struck in. “No!
nothing shall induce me to go!” Retort from the crowd, “Devil take it, are
you our vicar or not? You know that you are, and it is your duty to work for
us.” “Upstarts!—I am God’s servant, not yours!” To put an end to the
uproar Chamaille banged the gate in the faces of the foremost, but through
the bars we could see him still threatening his people with one hand, while
by force of habit the other was raised in the attitude of benediction. We
could catch a glimpse of him through the window, square of face and round
of belly, and as he could no longer make himself heard above the clamor,
we could see the derisive gesture with which he replied; but from that
moment the house was closed and turned a blind eye on the street, so the
noise gradually died down, the crowd grew thinner, and at last we could get
near enough to knock at the door. It was a long time before we could get an
answer. “Hi, Vicar!” we called, but there was no reply. “Go to the devil! I
am out,” came from behind the shutters, and we continued to hammer on
the door. “Get out, I tell you! If you don’t let my door alone you will get a
deluge that will astonish you!”—and the contents of a bucket began to
trickle down our backs. “Chamaille!” we called out; “make it wine if you
want to soak us.” The tempest instantly subsided; and our friend stuck his
jolly red face out of the window crying, “Name of a name, boys, is it you?
In another minute you would have caught it finely—why didn’t you say
who you were?” Then he came rushing downstairs. “Come in! come in!
Give us your hand, and come upstairs and have a drink; you need it if you
are half as hot as I am! It is a real treat to see a civilized human being after
those dancing apes; did you see the row they were kicking up? But they can
kick as they please, I will not stir one step. Do you know they actually
wanted me to go out with the Holy Sacrament? There is a storm coming up
too, and the Host and I would both have been soaked; but the idea of
treating me as if I were a plowboy! I am no servant of theirs, sacrilegious
rascals! I’ll teach them to treat God’s minister with respect. My business is
to cultivate their souls and not their fields.”
“What in the world is the matter with you?” said we. “Tell us what has
happened.” “Well, come in first,” said he, “upstairs where we shall be more
comfortable. My throat is as dry as a lime-kiln, I must have something to
drink. Now what do you say to that? You must have tasted worse in your
time. But would you believe it, my friends, those brutes actually wanted me
to have fasts and feasts every day, and for what do you think? For nothing
in the world but insects.”—“Insects!” we shouted. “Well, you really must
have a bee in your bonnet; are you crazy, or are we?” This was the last
straw, and he protested indignantly that it was bad enough to be troubled by
all this folly, without being called a fool. “Well then, tell us all about it like
a sensible man.”—“You will drive me to perdition,” said he, wiping the
sweat from his brow, “the good Lord and I have been so harried and
bothered with all this nonsense, I must try to calm down!—You know these
people of mine want their vicar to provide rain and sunshine for them. They
jeer at the life eternal and don’t keep their souls any cleaner than their feet,
but they expect me to make the sun and the moon stand still at their desire.