r consent. Useless to say,
we will put everything in good order if you return, unless you should
care to use the dug-out yourself. My wife and I shall anxiously await
your reply."

And this in Paris, June 28th, 1918!

I do not know what particular epoch in world war events served as
inspiration to the author of a certain ditty, now particularly popular
among the military. But decidedly his injunction to

"Pack all your troubles in an old kit bag,
And smile, smile, smile,"

has been followed out to the letter, in the case of the Parisian, who
has also added that other virtue "Patience" to his already long list of
qualities.

With the almost total lack of means of communication, a dinner downtown
becomes an expedition, and a theatre party a dream of the future.

During the Autumn twilights, on the long avenues swept by the rain, or
at street corners where the wind seizes it and turns it into miniature
water spouts, one can catch glimpses of the weary, bedraggled Parisian,
struggling beneath a rebellious umbrella, patiently waiting for a cab.
He has made up his mind to take the first that goes by. There can be
no question of discrimination. Anything will be welcome. Yes,
anything, even one of those evil-smelling antiquated hackneys drawn by
a decrepit brute who will doubtless stumble and fall before having
dragged you the first five hundred yards, thereby bringing down the
pitiless wrath of his aged driver, not only on his own, but your head.

Taxis whizz by at a rate which leads one to suppose that they had a
rendezvous with dame Fortune. Their occupants are at the same time
objects of envy and admiration, and one calls every latent cerebral
resource to his aid, in order to guess where on earth they were to be
found empty. And how consoling is the disdainful glance of the
chauffeur who, having a fare, is hailed by the unfortunate, desperate
pedestrian that has a pressing engagement at the other end of town.

If one of them ever shows signs of slowing up, it is immediately
pounced upon and surrounded by ten or a dozen damp human beings.

Triumphantly the driver takes in their humble, supplicating glances
(glances which have never been reproduced save in pictures of the
Martyrs), and then clearing his throat he questions:

"First of all I've got to know where you want to go. I'm bound for
Grenelle."

Nobody ever wants to go to Grenelle.

If some one tactfully suggests the Avenue de Messine, he