ey are pressed down, find the thing enjoyable.

A cafe-front indeed is better than an omnibus-top for studying Paris, and
the cafe itself is a club for everybody. People go to it to gossip and
regale themselves, play games, talk politics, read the newspapers, write
letters, transact business it may be, sit, think, dream, and rest
themselves. To the Anglo-Saxon the life that is led in it seems a good
deal like walking about in a botanical garden during the day and sleeping
in an observatory at night--a decidedly artificial existence; but so long
as we must drink or be amused at all, we shall do well to study the ways
of the French. They alone know how to eat and drink properly and amuse
themselves in a rational way.

GILMAN C. FISHER.

FOG.

Light silken curtain, colorless and soft,
Dreamlike before me floating! what abides
Behind thy pearly veil's
Opaque, mysterious woof?

Where sleek red kine, and dappled, crunch day-long
Thick, luscious blades and purple clover-heads,
Nigh me I still can mark
Cool fields of beaded grass.

No more; for on the rim of the globed world
I seem to stand and stare at nothingness.
But songs of unseen birds
And tranquil roll of waves

Bring sweet assurance of continuous life
Beyond this silvery cloud. Fantastic dreams,
Of tissue subtler still
Than the wreathed fog, arise,

And cheat my brain with airy vanishings
And mystic glories of the world beyond.
A whole enchanted town
Thy baffling folds conceal--

An Orient town, with slender-steepled mosques,
Turret from turret springing, dome from dome,
Fretted with burning stones,
And trellised with red gold.

Through spacious streets, where running waters flow,
Sun-screened by fruit trees and the broad-leaved palm,
Past the gay-decked bazaars,
Walk turbaned, dark-eyed men.

Hark! you can hear the many murmuring tongues,
While loud the merchants vaunt their gorgeous wares.
The sultry air is spiced
With fragrance of rich gums,

And through the lattice high in yon dead wall,
See where, unveiled, an arch, young, dimpled face,
Flushed like a musky peach,
Peers down upon the mart!

From her dark, ringleted and bird-poised head
She hath cast back the milk-white silke