mind like a lovely picture. Out here it was all as still as--I was
going to say Sunday, but I should have to say a New England Sunday, as
out here Sunday is just like any other day. There was not even a
ringing of bells. The only difference there was to me was that Amelie
drove Pere over to Coutevroult, on the other side of the valley of the
Grand Morin, where he played for the dance, and did not get back until
long after daylight. I did put out my flags in honor of the day. That
was the extent of my celebrating.

In the evening there was a procession at Voisins, and from Meaux and the
other towns on the hill there was an occasional rocket. It was not
really an exciting day.

The procession at Voisins was a primitive affair, but, to me, all the
prettier for that. It looked so quaint with its queer lanterns, its few
flags, its children and men in blouses, strolling through the crooked,
hilly streets of the old town, to the tap of the drum. No French
procession, except it be soldiers, ever marches. If you ever saw a
funeral procession going through the street, or one going about a
church, you do not need to be told that.

I was glad that this little procession here kept so much of its old-time
character, but I was sorry it was not gayer. Still, it was so
picturesque that it made me regret anew, what I have so many times
regretted of late years, that so many of the old habits of country life
in France are passing away, as they are, for that matter, all over
Europe, along with ignorance and national costumes.

I must tell you that up to three years ago it was the custom in this
commune, which, simply because it is not on a railroad, has preserved