b in front of the small shops. Diminutive donkeys, harnessed to
picturesque two-wheeled carts piled high with vegetables, twitch their
long ears and doze in the shady corners of the street. The gutters,
flushed with clear water, flash in the sunlight. Baskets full of red
roses and white carnations, at a few sous the armful, brighten the cool
shade of the alleys leading to courtyards of wild gardens, many of which
are filled with odd collections of sculpture discarded from the
ateliers.

[Illustration: (donkey cart in front of market)]

Old women in linen caps and girls in felt slippers and leather-covered
sabots, market baskets on arm, gossip in groups or hurry along the
narrow sidewalk, stopping at the butcher's or the baker's to buy the
dejeuner. Should you breakfast in your studio and do your own
marketing, you will meet with enough politeness in the buying of a pate,
an artichoke, and a bottle of vin ordinaire, to supply a court welcoming
a distinguished guest.

Politeness is second nature to the Parisian--it is the key to one's
daily life here, the oil that makes this finesse of civilization run
smoothly.

"Bonjour, madame!" says the well-to-do proprietor of the tobacco-shop
and cafe to an old woman buying a sou's worth of snuff.

"Bonjour, monsieur," replies the woman with a nod.

"Merci, madame," continues the fat patron as he drops the sou into his
till.

"Merci, monsieur--merci!" and she secretes the package in her netted
reticule, and hobbles out into the sunny street, while the patron
attends to the wants of three draymen who have clambered down from their
heavy carts for a friendly chat and a little vermouth. A polished zinc
bar runs the length of the low-ceilinged room; a narrow, winding
stairway in one corner leads to the living apartments above. Behind the
bar shine three well-polished square mirrors, and ranged in front of
these, each in its zinc rack, are the favorite beverages of the
Quarter--anisette, absinthe, menthe, grenadine--each in zinc-stoppered
bottles, like the ones in the barber-shops.

At the end of the little bar a cocher is having his morning tipple, the
black brim of his yellow glazed hat resting on his coarse red ears. He
is in his shirt-sleeves; coat slung over his shoulder, and whip in hand,
he is on the way to get his horse and voiture for the day. To be even a
cocher in Paris is considered a profession. If he dines at six-thirty
and you hail him to take you as he rattles p