Then a proletarian wedding procession--headed by the bride and
bridegroom, an ungainly pair in their Sunday best--all singing noisily
together. Then a pauper funeral, or a covered stretcher, followed by
sympathetic eyes on its way to the Hotel-Dieu; or the last sacrament,
with bell and candle, bound for the bedside of some humble agonizer _in
extremis_--and we all uncovered as it went by.

And then, for a running accompaniment of sound the clanging chimes, the
itinerant street cries, the tinkle of the _marchand de coco,_ the drum,
the _cor de chasse,_ the organ of Barbary, the ubiquitous pet parrot,
the knife-grinder, the bawling fried-potato monger, and, most amusing of
all, the poodle-clipper and his son, strophe and antistrophe, for every
minute the little boy would yell out in his shrill treble that "his
father clipped poodles for thirty sous, and was competent also to
undertake the management of refractory tomcats," upon which the father
would growl in his solemn bass, "My son speaks the truth"--_L'enfant
dit vrai!_

And rising above the general cacophony the din of the eternally cracking
whip, of the heavy carwheel jolting over the uneven stones, the stamp
and neigh of the spirited little French cart-horse and the music of his
many bells, and the cursing and swearing and _hue! dia!_ of his driver!
It was all entrancing.

Thence home--to quite, innocent, suburban Passy--by the quays, walking
on the top of the stone parapet all the way, so as to miss nothing (till
a gendarme was in sight), or else by the Boulevards, the Rue de Rivoli,
the Champs Elysees, the Avenue de St. Cloud, and the Chaussee de la
Muette. What a beautiful walk! Is there another like it anywhere as it