[Illustration]

The new arrival recognises DAUBINET, and salutes him.  DAUBINET warmly acknowledges the recognition, and in a few moments they are engaged in an animated conversation, one commencing his reply before the other has finished his question, neither permitting the other to complete a sentence, whether interrogatory or declaratory; so that, during the greater part of their conversation,—­which lasts till, thank goodness, the stranger has to get out, which he does at the next station, and disappears in the darkness,—­I can only pick up a word or half a sentence here and there, and, in a general way, wonder why they become so earnest and emphatic about the most ordinary topics.  For an English listener, however, it is an excellent lesson in colloquial French; only I cannot help wishing that they would take the “tempo” just a little slower, and that their tone were not necessarily up to concert pitch, in order to keep itself well above the running accompaniment of railway-wheels, which seems to fit all modes of counting from two to sixteen in a bar.  At last the train stops, the dialogue becomes jerky, our companion salutes us politely, wishes us “bon voyage” and descends.

After his departure, I ask DAUBINET, “Who is your friend?” as I should like to know the reason of DAUBINET not having introduced us.  His reply at once resolves all my doubts and difficulties on the subject; it is simply, “Heaven knows!  He is a nice fellow.  I have met him quelque part.  Ah! v’la!” He rushes to the window.  “Hi! hi!  Guard!  Conducteur!” The Conducteur appears, and informs us that we descend at the next station, and, after that, in another five minutes we shall be at Reims.

And so we are.  Reims at last!  Not brilliant is Reims on this dark night.  There are several omnibuses and other vehicles waiting to take the very few passengers who alight from the train, and who, it appears, as a rule, prefer to walk.  Having no baggage beyond a few bags and a small portmanteau which travel with us in our compartment, and which the porter can wheel on a truck, or indeed carry if he chooses, we are soon in the ’bus, and rattling over the stones to the Hotel.

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[Illustration:  “NEB’LAR (HIC) ’POTHESIS.”

Elderly Gentleman (overcome by gravitation). “’ORRIGHT, INSPECTRUM.  BEEN READING SPEESH—­PRES’DENT BRI’SH-SOSHIASHLEM.  SHPLENDID SPEESH!  I’M IN ’UNIQUE POSISHN ’F (HIC) ABSOLUTE IMM’BILITY IN MIDSHT OF WHIRLING ’N DRIFTING SUNS, ’N SYSHTEMS ‘F SUNS.’  GOOD OLD HUGGINS!!”]

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ODE TO A BAROMETER.

(BY A TROUBLED TAPSTER.)

I tap you early, tap you late,
In vain! 
We get—­whatever you may state—­
Much rain. 
The Woodpecker of which fools sing
Ne’er tapped
Half so persistently.  Since Spring
I’ve rapped
Your fair false dial day by day,