nt quickly, that
the American girl is, in the mass, more ocularly massaging, more nimble
with the niblick, more more in several ways than her sister of France;
but in her eyes, however otherwise lovely, is glint of steel where
should be dreaming pansies, in her heart reverie of banknotes where
should be _billets doux_.

And so by Parisian man I mean, not the chorus men of Des Italiens,
betalcumed and odoriferous with the scents of Pinaud, those weird birds
who are guarded by the casual Yankee as typical and symbolic of the
nation. Nor do I mean the fish-named, liver-faced denizens of the region
down from the Opera, those spaniel-eyed creatures who live in the tracks
of petite Sapphos, who spend the days in cigarette smoke, the nights in
scheming ambuscade. Nor yet the Austrian cross-breeds who are to be
beheld behind the _gulasch_ in the Rue d'Hauteville, nor the
semi-Milanese who sibilate the _minestrone_ at Aldegani's in the Passage
des Panoramas, nor the Frenchified Spaniards and Portuguese who gobble
the _guisillo madrileno_ at Don Jose's in the Rue Helder, nor the
half-French Cossacks amid the _potrokha_ in the Restaurant Cubat, nor
the Orientals with the waxed moustachios and girlish waists who may be
observed at moontide dawdling over their _cafe a la Turque_ at Madame
Louna Sonnak's. These are the Frenchmen of Paris no more than the
habitues of Back Bay are the Americans of Boston, no more than the
Americans of Boston are--Americans.

* * * * *

It is night in Paris! It is night in the Paris of a thousand memories.
And the Place de la Concorde lies silver blue under springtime skies.
And up the Champs Elysees the elfin lamps shimmer in the moist leaves
like a million topaz tears. And the boulevards are a-thrill with the
melody of living. Are you, now far away and deep in the American winter,
with me once again in memory over the seas in this warm and wonderful
and fugitive world? And do you hear with me again the twang of guitars
come out the hedges of the Avenue Marigny? And do you smell with me the
rare perfume of the wet asphalt and feel with me the wanderlust in the
spirit soul of the Seine? Through the frost on the windows can you look
out across the world and see with me once again the trysting tables in
the Boulevard Raspail, a-whisper with soft and wondrous monosyllables,
and can you hear little Ninon laughing and Fleurette sighing, and little
Helene (just passed ninetee