ne was worth the time and trouble, the
other was not. We left town the same night headed north, in the
direction of Arras, via St. Quentin, anciently one of the famous
walled towns of France, but now a queer, if picturesque,
conglomeration of relics of a historical past and modern business
affairs.

It was Sunday, and well into the afternoon, when we got away from
Laon, but the peasant, profiting by the fair harvest days, was
working in the fields as if he never had or would have a holiday.
Unquestionably the peasant and labouring class in France is
hard-working at his daily task and at his play, for when he plays he
also plays hard. This, the eternal activity of the peasant or
labourer, whatever his trade, and the worked-over little
farm-holdings, with their varied crops, all planted in little
bedquilt patches, are the chief characteristics of the French
countryside for the observant stranger.

We crossed the Oise at La Fere, La Fere of wicked memory, as readers
of Stevenson will recall. Nothing went very badly with us, but all
the same the memory of Stevenson's misadventure at his hotel made us
glad we were not stopping there.

We passed now innumerable little towns and villages clinging to red,
brown, and green hillsides, with here and there a thatched cottage of
other days, for, in the _agglomerations_, as the French government
knows the hamlets and towns, it is now forbidden to thatch or
rethatch a roof; you must renew it with tiles or slates when the
original thatch wears out.

Soon after passing La Fere one sees three hilltop forts, for we are
now in more or less strategic ground, and militarism is rampant.

St. Quentin has been the very centre of a warlike maelstrom for ages,
and the memory of blood and fire lies over all its history, though
to-day, as we entered its encumbered, crooked streets, things looked
far from warlike.

We had our choice of the Hotel du Cygne or the Hotel du Commerce at
St. Quentin, and chose the latter as being nearer the soil, whereas
the former establishment is blessed with electric lights, a
_calorifere_, and a "bar"--importing the word and the institution
from England or America.

We found nothing remarkable in the catering of the Hotel du Commerce.
It was good enough of its kind, but not distinctive, and we got beer
served with our dinner, instead of wine or cider. If you want either
of the latter you must pay extra. We were in the beer region, not the
cider country or t