A DAY AT LAGUERRE'S

F. HOPKINSON SMITH


It is the most delightful of French inns, in the quaintest of French
settlements. As you rush by in one of the innumerable trains that pass
it daily, you may catch glimpses of tall trees trailing their branches
in the still stream,--hardly a dozen yards wide,--of flocks of white
ducks paddling together, and of queer punts drawn up on the shelving
shore or tied to soggy, patched-up landing-stairs.

If the sun shines, you can see, now and then, between the trees, a
figure kneeling at the water's edge, bending over a pile of clothes,
washing,--her head bound with a red handkerchief.

If you are quick, the miniature river will open just before you round
the curve, disclosing in the distance groups of willows, and a rickety
foot-bridge perched up on poles to keep it dry. All this you see in a
flash.

But you must stop at the old-fashioned station, within ten minutes of
the Harlem River, cross the road, skirt an old garden bound with a fence
and bursting with flowers, and so pass on through a bare field to the
water's edge, before you catch sight of the cosy little houses lining
the banks, with garden fences cutting into the water, the arbors
covered with tangled vines, and the boats crossing back and forth.