It is the small boy who crawls under the circus tent who most keenly enjoys the show. He has watched while the big double-top canvas was being raised and staked taut, transforming the familiar pasture-lot into a magic realm, more alluring and seductive than the best fishing-hole in the town creek. Following the parade, a cavalcade of golden chariots, caparisoned horses and swaying elephants, the small boy has walked on air, buoyed by the thump and blare of the brass band. Weeks before he had rev

Rows of geraniums flame in the well ordered gardens of the Tuileries. Masses of flowers, gay in color as the ribbons streaming from the bonnets of the nurses, lie in brilliant patches along gravel walks or within the cool shadow of massive architecture. Brown-legged children, in white socks and white dresses fresh from the blanchisseuse , run screaming after runaway hooples, or watch in silent ecstasy the life and exploits of Mr. Punch at the Théâtre Guignol . Under a vault of turquoise sky the

You suggest two in the third row. “ Bon ,” replies madame , approvingly. She dips a pen in violet ink and writes carefully upon a checklike document the numbers of the chosen seats, tears this check from its stub, blots it, and scratches the corresponding numbers from the diagram. “ Voilà, Monsieur ,” and she hands you your ticket. Then she dives into the pocket of her petticoat for the key to a money-drawer from which to make your change. Finally, as you raise your hat to go, she adds, in parti

There still remain a few smart restaurants where there are no prices on the menu, but even in these there is a second edition of the bill of fare with the prices thereon which the maître d’hôtel will apologetically hand you when he discovers you are neither a millionaire nor a fool, even tho your French may be not so good as his own. If you have the leisure, the best plan is to order your dinner for a partie carrée in advance and for a certain fixed sum, as most Parisians do. AROUND THE HALLES I

The Robinière once existed on the first platform of the Tour Eiffel; since then its proprietor, Monsieur François Robin , has moved it to its permanent address, all of which speaks well for its success. It is filled nightly with Parisians of the vicinity. Much of the success of this tiny theater is due to the indefatigable effort of its director, Monsieur Robin , who literally passes his life in his playhouse, assisted in its management by his wife. These two, without help, without even a secret

Individually the habitués of the Bar du Grillon were interesting. There was an aged Countess who came regularly, an amiable old lady, shriveled like a faded rose, the memoirs of whose sixty years would have filled a volume. There was, too, a robust and jolly editor of a leading journal, a most polished gentleman of France, with a well-trimmed beard framing a countenance beaming with good humor. Thirdly, there was the Count de X——, who spent most of his time before and after dinner in the only ro

“Columbine fluttered like a butterfly out to the glitter of the world. Thorns scratched her in the garden as she hurried on, and beyond the wall of their paradise she found the world, but it was not at all like the world of her dreams. The rain faded her pretty dress, and hunger shriveled her delicate body; meanwhile the multitude rushed by her unheeding. “Poor Pierrot! How she craved the sound of his voice now, his trustful eyes, the cool touch of his white cheeks! How merry were the tunes he s

They organized weekly reunions where each member of this jolly company recited original verses or sang songs of his own composition. These reunions soon became open to the public, and so the first singing cabaret of its kind was created. The small room was filled with a collection of bas-reliefs, busts and drawings, contributed by its artist habitués . It offered nightly a shelter to the budding genius of Bohemia and a place of free license for patriotic and political songs, satires, and parodie

She had a ready wit, too, and a vocabulary interlarded with the argot of the gamine and gigolette of the barrière . All of leisure Paris patted her approvingly upon her bare shoulders and threw her their louis. But those were the days when La Goulue was younger. Now time has flown away with youth, her fervor and her grace. She became stout—almost portly. One blue Monday this famous danseuse packed up her frills and her furbelows, folded carefully what was left of her Valenciennes lace, and said

It was nine o’clock Sunday evening and the revue at the Folies Bergère was about to begin, as my friend, a successful writer of many Parisian revues , Monsieur René Louis , led me through the crowded promenoir of this thoroughly Parisian music-hall and through a small iron door into another world. I say another world, for it was peopled with fairies— coryphées in pink tights whose eyes were stenciled and lined with blue until they appeared as almond-shaped as an odalisque’s. The stage was crowde

When I first saw her, Madame Baudière was stepping out of the narrow doorway of her bait shop and calling lustily to her garçon André, who had reached the shore of a feathery green island just opposite, and who upon hearing madame ’s voice turned his boat about and bent his broad back to his oars in haste to return. “ Dépêchez-vous! ” cried madame , as he drew nearer. “ Monsieur wishes the big boat.” “ Bien, madame, tout de suite ,” answered André, plunging the clumsy blades into the glassy rive

“Come, come, mon cher ! how about my chapeau ?” “ Si tu veux ,” he consents, and the bargain is made. At the bend of the byway an acre of roses in white paper jackets flame in the sun, and gay boutonnières of fragrant posies are tucked in lapels of passing gallants. A hearse crawls by—poor Ninette! you have gone. Can you still hear, I wonder, the crash of the band, the swinging waltz in the whirling room? It is François, dear, who has sent you the roses—the drooping roses that cover your tomb. I