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"They 's time to change afore night. Ef he 's goin' to Perrysburg-"
Perrysburg? They ain't no talk uv Perrysburg," said Zeke.
"They may be," answered Bob. "Un ef Perrysburg's the place, you put the candle at the leetle winder on the north side uv the chimbley. Un when I shoot, you put out the candle, un then I'll know it's you, un you'll know 't I understan'. You see, 't won't do fer me to stop any nearder 'n the hill, un I 'll wait there till I see your candle. Then you go weth Jake." Here Bob got up and strained his long-sighted eyes at some object in the bushes on the other side of the brook. "Is yon hoss yourn, on t' other side of the branch? "
"I don't see no hoss," said Zeke. "Well, you watch out a minute un you'll ketch sight uv 'im. He's gone in there to git shed of the flies."
"That's our clay-bank, I believe," said Zeke, getting up and carefully scanning the now half-visible horse.
"Mine! you hain't seen nor heern tell of me, un you b'long to Jake's crowd weth all your might."
With these words Bob set out again for his bear-hunt, while the bare-foot Zeke waded through the stream, which was knee-deep, and set himself to beguile Britton's clay-bank horse into standing still and forfeiting his liberty. Edward Eggleston.
(To be continued.)
LIVING IN PARIS.
amass twenty-five hundred dollars for each of their children on marriage. The hall-porter gave them the garret closet free. The tenants gave them scraps of bread and broken victuals. They drank only water. The wife did the washing in the yard; neither soap nor irons were used. The husband was employed all night at the goods-station of a railway, and he there got odd jobs during the day; the wife did chores. The children went to a free school. A great many of the hall-porters spend nothing. They have their lodging free; the wife is employed as a char-woman in the house or neighborhood; the husband is often a tailor. They get broken victuals and second-hand clothes and shoes from tenants, and sometimes a bottle of wine.
There are eighty thousand houses in Paris, and nearly every one of them has a hall-porter; some of them have two. There are petty needle and thread shops, or shops for notions, which anybody can manage. The husband is a clerk in some office. If the shop yields income enough to pay its rent, both husband and wife are content.
The absence of servants is very remarkable. I have lived in houses where I was the only person who kept a servant, and she was merely a char-woman.
This work is much easier than in America. No fuel is used in the kitchen but charcoal, which is burned in a sort of shelf with four holes, one of which is for the soup-pot, another for the stew-pan or gridiron; the others are rarely used. I have, while hunting lodgings, visited thousands of kitchens. I have seen only these two holes which bore marks
of use. Eighty pounds of charcoal (all wood is sold by weight), costing one dollar and sixty cents for the very best quality of Yonne make, medium thickness, last a month or six weeks. It makes no dust, leaves few ashes, and is easily lighted. Recently a sort of artificial "lightwood" has come into great favor. It is sold in coarse paper boxes, holding from forty to forty-eight pieces, which cost one cent a box; for four cents a month the fires are lighted instantly and without paper. A match and this lightwood are all that is required.
The butcher calls twice a day, first to get orders, lastly with the orders filled. The baker comes every morning, bringing what bread you want. The grocer calls twice on an appointed day (always the same), once to get, next to fill orders. The vintner calls on an appointed day, if you please, bringing a week's or a fortnight's or a month's supply, just as you wish. Your laundress comes once in ten days if she live in the country: Saturday to return the clean, Monday to get the soiled linen, if she live in town. A note to your coal-dealer brings fuel. Every morning costermongers call at the door, one with fish, another with oysters, another still with vegetables; you may order from them what you desire; but don't order anything anywhere in Paris; find what you want and there buy. If you order, you are sure to be cheated in quality, in quantity, or in price; commonly in all three. To make costermongers bring what you want, say: "You have no strawberries?" or, "You have no tomatoes?" When you get a tolerably good costermonger, especially a fishmonger, stick to him. There is at least one good pastry-cook in every respectable neighborhood. Visit, buy from each of them, and select the best. The pastry-cook is very useful. He supplies delicious meat and fish pies and such dessert (I use the word in the American sense) as an ordinary cook could not be expected to make; for instance, Charlotte Russe, St. Honoré, Frangipane, and the like. Never buy cake of any sort at a baker's. All bakers make several sorts of bread, but scarcely a baker in Paris makes bad bread; some of them make bread as good as cake. If you want to see bread in perfection, the beau idéal of bread, go to Versailles and buy it, especially their pain marquise for Sunday's sale. Do not buy fuel of any sort from the petty coal-dealers found in every
IN A CHURCH CORNER.
street, unless you have no place to store a large quantity; then you must buy of your neighbor.
Lodgings in Paris are of several classes. The lowest is cabinet, which is a cupboard with room enough for a cot, if the cot be not long, if the cot be not wide, if the cot be not high, and if the cot can enter. There is never a fire-place, rarely a window, unless the cabinet be next to the roof, where there may be a skylight. A cabinet is to be had for from twelve to twenty-four dollars a year. It is tenanted by servants, sometimes husband and wife, but commonly by unmarried servants, by shopboys in their first wrestle with fortune, and by other persons who are employed all day, eat at public dining-rooms, and ask of home only shelter from rain and a place to lie down.
Next is chambre, which is a room with a fire-place and commonly with a window, or at least an apology for a window. It is let for from twenty-four to fifty dollars a year, but the latter price is very rare and could be gotten
Above these is logement, which always has a kitchen and two chambers, with fire-places and windows. All well-to-do married working people live in logements, which are very comfortable in the newer houses of Paris; but
only in the busiest parts of Paris. Then comes kitchen, antechamber, one, sometimes two, chambre et cabinet- a bedchamber with a bedchambers, and other conveniences. There smaller room for orts and ends: the chamber is a mirror on the marble mantel-piece of the has a window; the smaller room has a win- sitting-room and the bedchamber, a porcelain dow generally, but no fire-place. They are to stove in the dining-room, a cellar, and a serbe had for from thirty to sixty dollars. vant's chamber in the garret. In new houses there is water in the kitchen, and gas everywhere. Rent for appartements varies from one hundred and sixty to three hundred dollars. Then you have grand appartement, which has commonly two sitting-rooms and several bedchambers, besides the rooms to be found in an appartement. Above grand appartement is hôtel, which is a private mansion; while a grand hôtel is a public-house or a tavern. There are as many sorts of refectories in Paris as of lodgings.
At all of the convents and barracks broken meats are distributed during winter. There are "economical kitchen ranges," where soup with its meat and vegetables is sold for one cent a ration; and there are innumerable places where free tickets for even these cheap rations are to be had. A ticket for bread is commonly given with the soup-ticket. At all of the markets, and especially at the Great Markets, there are itinerant coffee-sellers and soup-sellers. Frenchmen and soup are convertible terms. Whenever a Frenchman is ill, or exhausted, or hungry, or about to take a long journey, he orders soup. The first thing he orders when he gets up in the morning is soup. The last thing he takes at night before donning his night-cap (all Frenchmen wear nightcaps) is soup. So, of course, souphouses are found everywhere. Our wood-cut represents a scene in the neighborhood of the Great Markets, where from 3 A. M. to sunset hundreds of similar scenes are to be found. An old woman has a small table on which white earthenware bowls, made so thick that they might fall on the ground without breaking, and so thick that the buyer feels he has a large ration for his money, are laid; by her side are two large tin cans, both with chafing-iron in the bottom to keep the contents hot. One can holds soup, the other hot water to wash bowls after use. In old times- that is, before the ground around the Innocents' Fountain was sodded and made a public garden - all this space was covered with soup-cooks, each under a wide, red umbrella, with souppot simmering on a portable kitchen. Each customer was given election-a bowl of soup or pot-luck. Armed with an iron fork whose
handle was three feet long, he had the right to try his pot-luck; if he speared a bit of meat, it was added to his soup-bowl. These picturesque kitchens have been improved out of existence. Pot-luck has been lost.
The poorest young artist or student scarcely ever enters a gargote. He prefers eating bread and cheese or bread and sausage at home to mingling with coarse throngs. If he has a little money, he goes to some crèmerie. No soup is to be had here; but coffee or chocolate, an omelette, a chop or beef-steak, and a salad are to be gotten for five cents each; bread, for two cents. Some of these crèmeries are quite clean, and the cooking is good and plain, such as one sees in peasants' houses.
A little higher in grade above the crèmerie is the bouillon; for in the business parts of Paris (where such eating-houses alone are to be found) it is frequented from 9 A. M. to 2 P. M. by business men and the better-paid clerks and shopmen. Later in the day it is frequented by the poor who are too proud, or whose position (as Government clerks and the like) forbids them, to go to the lower classes of eating-houses. You can get nothing in a bouillon but beef soup, boiled beef (the beef of the soup), cheese, currant jelly, bread, and wine. The prices are three cents for soup, five cents for beef (which has been boiled to shreds, and is as tasteless
as so much twine), and two cents for bread. Few of the customers order anything else, except a vial of wine, which costs four cents; cheese and currant jelly are three cents a ration. Bouillons Duval were originally such places as these. Duval was a butcher near the Great Markets. He every day had left odds and ends of meat, mere waste. He, like all butchers in working people's quarters, used this waste to make beef soup, which he sold to his neighbors. Being a first-rate judge of meat on the hoof (a very rare talent; the butchers in Paris who have this talent are widely known and have more business than they can attend to), he got the Hôtel du Louvre and two or three of the great clubs for customers. They wanted only the best cuts. He did not know what to do with the lower qualities of meat. In thinking over the best way to end this embarrassment, he determined to establish bouillons, where not only soup but roast meats should be sold, and so low as to tempt even customers of restaurants. They at once became popular, and poured so much money into his pocket that he turned them into restaurants, where he sold not only inferior but the highest qualities of meat.
Nearly all vintners supply food. The majority of them ought to be classed with gargotes, but many of them have two rooms, one
for working people, the other for a higher class of customers. The cooking, meats, and vegetables are very coarse, but large rations are given. This is their recommendation.
The price is six cents a ration for everything but bread, which is three cents. Some vintners have a reputation for dishes which brings them in a great deal of custom. There is a vintner in Rue du Temple whose delicious tripe draws people from every part of Paris. There are several near the Great Markets famous for snails.
Above the vintners are the fixed-price restaurants that is, public dining-rooms where, for a given sum of money, you have for breakfast as much bread as you can eat on the
spot, one ration of meat, one ration of vegetables, a dessert, and a vial of wine, or a second ration of meat or of vegetables instead of wine; for dinner, soup, two rations of meat, a ration of vegetables, a dessert, and a vial of wine, which may be exchanged as above mentioned. The cheapest of these restaurants are in the Latin Quarter. They are students' restaurants. All students' restaurants are crowded-not on account of excellence, but of cheapness. When a man has only sous in his pocket, he does not stop to frame a bill of fare; he runs for low prices. He
has not reached the hour when he may listen to his palate and humor all its whims. Prices at restaurants are of all rates, but fourteen, sixteen, or eighteen sous, with two sous to the waiter, will still get in the Latin Quarter a full dinner. As for quality-"Don't you think, Mr. Surface, we had better leave honor out of the argument?" Beggars must not be choosers. All cheap and especially all students' restaurants are most democratic places. Nobody hesitates to chat with his neighbor. After you have eaten three or four meals, the waiter looks on you as his property; and even before this initiation, if you order a bottle of wine (vials are the largest liquid measure known to the general customer), the waiter is sure to
bring his own glass with bottle and to toss off a bumper to your health. The victualer always sidles up to you, unless you seem to be unusually poor or hold unsatisfactory theories of credit, under which circumstances the instinct of self-preservation keeps him at a safe distance from you. What would become of his daughters' dowries and sons' marriage settlements if, while he crammed you with bread and soup, you crammed him with airy promises to pay? His eyes have two other duties to discharge. He gives as much bread as the customer can carry off under his epidermis; but some fellows (there are black sheep in all flocks!) translate epidermis overcoat, failing to distinguish between meal eaten and meal saved. These cheap restaurants are disappearing even in the Latin Quarter. Rents, taxes, and everything else are rising, and to give a meal of any sort for less than a franc is becoming a miracle which it is daily harder to work. On the other hand, it is easier to
make money in Paris than it ever was. But this is a knack which some men never find out. When the price is twentyfive cents for breakfast and fifty cents for dinner, a half bottle of wine is given. There are public dining-rooms where, for forty cents, a breakfast, and, for from seventy cents to one dollar, a dinner may be had, but where the bill of fare is apparently more limited than in restaurants. Here you are given a book and asked to select what you want; but ninetyfive of every hundred dishes set down in the book are not to be had. In public diningrooms you have a bill of fare (such as is given