Wave fearless, there, thou standard sheet!
That Yankee trunk and all it holds
(Though Prussian hirelings throng each street)
Is safe beneath thy starry folds!

Saying which I dismissed the humiliated _concierge_, took a drink, blew
out the _bougie_, and sank into the arms of "Tired nature's sweet
restorer."

Instances like the above are quite common among Americans in Paris. It
was only the other day at the dépôt of the _Chemin de fer du Nord_ that
I saw a sick Bostonian sitting on his trunk outside the gates, waiting
for a chance to get into the train, with a Skye-terrier between his legs
wrapped in the American flag. You easily get accustomed to such sights,
and don't think anything about them.

Yesterday I called at the office of the American Minister. I gave the
porter my card, and asked if "WASH." was in. He eyed me strangely. (Most
people when they first see me generally do. I have thought sometimes
that a certificate of good character posted conspicuously about my
person would obviate this--but as they say here, "_n' importe_.")

"I'll see," said the porter, in reply to my question. He walked off,
taking with him the door mat, an umbrella that stood in the hall, four
coats and three hats that hung on the rack, besides numerous other small
portable articles of _vertu_ that would have come handy for a
professional "lifter."

I did not consider this movement a reflection upon my character, for it