musement, just outside
of Paris, is a spot fitted out to be a counterpart of the Island of Juan
Fernandez, described by Daniel de Foe in his story of Robinson Crusoe.

After leaving the railroad depot, you enter an omnibus on which are
painted the words "Robinson Crusoe." This leaves you at an arch-way
bearing the curious inscription: "A mimic island of Juan Fernandez, the
abode of Robinson Crusoe, dear to the heart of childhood, and a
reminder of our days of innocence." You pass under this with high hope,
and are not disappointed.

Inside, you find a kind of gypsy camp. Groups of open "summer-houses,"
built of bark, unhewn wood, and moss, are clustered here and there. Some
stand on the earth, others are in grottoes or by shady rocks, and some
are even among the branches of the great trees. All these houses are
meant for resting-places while you are being served with such delicacies
as pleasure-seekers from Paris are wont to require. In each of those
huts, which are in the trees, stands a waiter who draws up the luncheon,
the creams, or ices, in a kind of bucket, which has been filled by
another waiter below. All is done deftly and silently, and you are as
little disturbed as was Elijah by the ravens who waited on him.

The trees in which these houses are built are large old forest-trees,
each strong enough in the fork to hold safely the foundation of a small
cottage; and the winding stairs by which you get up into the tree are
hidden by a leafy drapery of ivy, which covers the trunk also, and hangs
in fluttering festoons from limb to limb.

From one of these comfortable perches you look down upon a lively scene
of foliage, flowers, greensward, gay costumes and frolicking children.
The view is wide, and has many features that would be strange to "dear
old Robinson Crusoe." His cabin is multiplied into a hamlet, and his
hermit life is gone. But you still recognize the place as a modernized
portrait of the island of De Foe's wonderful book. And, as if to furnish
you with a fresh piece of evidence, yonder appears Robinson Crusoe
himself, in his coat of skins, and bearing his musket and huge umbrella.

Instead of Man Friday, Will Atkins, and the rest, you see donkeys
carrying laughing children and led by queer-looking old women. And you
heave a little sigh when you think: "How few of these French boys and
girls really know old Crusoe and his adventures! To them this charming
place has nothing whatever to do with running