ther has any idea whether the
world is round or flat; neither is aware, save dimly, that there are
other lands and other peoples than his own; but the ragpicker is in a
city full of books and newspapers (and, oddly enough, is a principal
purveyor for the mills that make paper for printing); and the Digger
has the advantage in the comparison. The Digger lives in vicious
sexual relations, but in this particular point the comparison leaves
the Indian far in advance of his rival, for the ragpicker's customs in
this regard are worse by far than those of even the most degraded
Indians of America. There is nothing in any savage country more
horrible, more astounding and incredible than the practices of the
ragpickers of Paris in respect of the relations between the sexes.
They are so atrociously vile that it is difficult to state the truth
in cleanly words.

You may have heard that a ragpicker who has risen to the rank of a
boss in his trade, and so remains at home in a shop and goes out with
his hook no more, is called an _ogre_. A woman attaining this dignity
is called an _ogress_. The terms are not idle ones. Like many of the
words and phrases of slang they are based on the clearest conception
of the merits of the case. An ogre or ogress without a daughter, real
or adopted, lacks the first requisite for doing a successful business.
The ogre or ogress has his or her especial workmen, who go out and
scour the streets, bringing home their load, and being paid in board
and lodging simply. When there is a daughter in the business the
workmen are her husbands. The process of divorce is easy, and consists
simply in the ragpicker's returning with his _hotte_ (_la hotte_ is
the basket which hangs on the back) to some other ogre or ogress after
his daily or nightly tour of the streets. Marriage among the
ragpickers of Paris is so rare an incident as to be virtually no part
of their plan of life.

The Paris ragpicker is seldom seen in the streets by day: his most
profitable season is the night. And what meagre pickings are his at
the best! what despicable bits of paper, of twine, of coal-refuse, of
rejected food, bones, potato-skins, he gathers carefully in his hoard!
A bit of paper no larger than a postage-stamp he saves. A crust of
bread no bigger than a walnut is a prize, for rare are the households
in Paris in which a crust that is large enough to be visible to the
naked eye is allowed to be thrown into the street. Standing and