rdled by
pink ribbon sashes, seemed ready to join them in the frolic. In one
cookshop window a trio of plaster nymphs who stood ankle-deep in a pool
of crimped green paper, upheld a huge garland of cunningly moulded wax
roses, dahlias, and lilac, above which perched a pheasant regnant. This
trophy met with vast approbation until a rival establishment across the
way, not to be outdone, exhibited a centrepiece of unparalleled
originality, consisting as it did of a war scene modelled entirely in
lard. Entrenched behind the battlements of the fort crowning an
eminence, Boers busied themselves with cannon whose aim was carefully
directed towards the admiring spectators outside the window, not at the
British troops who were essaying to scale the greasy slopes. Half way up
the hill, a miniature train appeared from time to time issuing from an
absolutely irrelevant tunnel, and, progressing at the rate of quite a
mile an hour, crawled into the corresponding tunnel on the other side.
At the base of the hill British soldiers, who seemed quite cognisant of
the utter futility of the Boer gunnery, were complacently driving off
cattle. Captious critics might have taken exception to the fact that the
waxen camellias adorning the hill were nearly as big as the battlements,
and considerably larger than the engine of the train. But fortunately
detractors were absent, and such trifling discrepancies did not lessen
the genuine delight afforded the spectators by this unique design which,
as a card proudly informed the world, was entirely the work of the
employes of the firm.

It was in a patisserie in the Rue de la Paroisse that we noticed an
uninviting compound labelled "Pudding Anglais, 2 fr. 1/2 kilo." A little
thought led us to recognise in this amalgamation a travesty of our old
friend plum-pudding; but so revolting was its dark, bilious-looking
exterior that we felt its claim to be accounted a compatriot almost
insulting. And it was with secret gratification that towards the close
of January we saw the same stolid, unhappy blocks awaiting purchasers.

[Illustration: The Mill]

The presence of the customary Tuesday market kept the streets busy till
noon. But when the square was again empty of sellers and buyers
Versailles relapsed into quietude. I wonder if any other town of its
size is as silent as Versailles. There is little horse-traffic. Save for
the weird, dirge-like drone of the electric cars, which seems in perfect
consonance