CHAPTER II.


MORET-SUR-LOING.

The valley of the Loing abounds in captivating spots, Moret-sur-Loing
bearing the palm. Over the ancient town, bird-like broods a majestic
church, as out-spread wings its wide expanse of roof, while below by
translucent depths and foliage richly varied, stretch quarters old and
new, the canal intersecting the river at right angles. Lovely as is the
river on which all who choose may spend long summer days, the canal to
my thinking is lovelier still. Straight as an arrow it saunters between
avenues of poplar, the lights and shadows of wood and water, the
sunburnt, stalwart barge folk, their huge gondoliers affording endless
pictures. Hard as is undoubtedly the life of the rope tower, rude as may
appear this amphibious existence, there are cheerful sides to the
picture. Many of these floating habitations possess a fireside nook cosy
as that of a Parisian concierge, I was never tired of strolling along
the canal and watching the barge folk. One day a friend and myself found
a large barge laden with coal at the head of the canal, the huge dark
framework and its sombre burden lighted up with touches of grace and
colour. At the farther end of the vessel was hung a cage of canaries, at
the other end was a stand of pot-flowers, geraniums and petunias in full
bloom and all the more brilliant by virtue of contrast. A neighbour of
the bargeman, a bright, intelligent woman, brown as a gipsy but
well-spoken and of tidy appearance, invited us to enter. Imagine the
neatest, prettiest little room in the world, parlour, bedchamber and
kitchen in one, every object so placed as to make the most of available
space. On a small side-table--and of course under such circumstances
each article must be sizable--stood a sewing machine, in the corner was