the hour of their departure.  It is the welcome that is everything; it implies so much, and may mean so little.  But, at the Grand, Paris, Avis aux Messieurs les voyageurs, "When in doubt, consult BLUM!” We enjoy a good but expensive dinner at the Maison Doree.  For myself, I prefer the simple fare at half the price to be found chez Noel, or at some other quiet and moderate restaurants that I could name.  Next morning a brief but welcome breakfast at Amiens, a tranquil crossing, and we are bidding each other adieu at the Victoria Station.  Music to the situation, “Home once more.”  Good-bye to my excellent ami DAUBINET, who stays a few hours in London, and then is off to Russia, Egypt, Iceland, Australia.

“Da Karascho! All r-r-right!”

And so ends a pleasant holiday trip to the Champagne Country, or real “Poppy-Land.”

* * * * *

STORICULES.

V.—­A BORN ARISTOCRAT.

[Illustration]

Whenever I forgot to put the matches in my pocket on leaving the chambers, I used to buy a box from a boy who stood at the street corner, where the ’busses stop.  He was a small boy, somewhat ragged and occasionally a good deal splashed with mud.  He was bright and energetic, and he did a very fair trade.  There was an air of complete independence about him, which one does not often find in match-boys.  His method of recommending his wares was considerably above the average of the peripatetic vendor; it suggested a large emporium, plate glass, mahogany counters, and gorgeous assistants with fair hair parted in the middle: 

“Now off’rin!  A unooshally lawge box of wax vestas for one penny.  Shop early and shop often.  Foosees, Sir?  Yessir.  Part o’ a bankrupt’s stock.”

This was smart of him.  By differing a little from the usual match-boy manner, he attracted more attention, and grins, and coppers.

One morning I had climbed up to the top of the ’bus and taken my seat, when I saw that the boy had followed me.

“No use,” I said; “I don’t want any this morning.”

“Well, I ain’t sellin’ none this mornin’, Sir.  I’m goin’ a ride on this ’ere ’buss.  My wife’s got the carridge hout in the Park; so I’m druv to takin’ busses—­same as you, Sir.”  He took the seat next to mine, and added seriously, “I expecks as you ain’t likely to be buyin’ no more matches from me.”

“Why, WILLIAM?”

“My name is REGGERNULD, Sir.  Yer see, I’m movin’ inter other premises, as yer might say.  I’ve give up my stand at yon corner.”  He jerked his thumb in the direction of it.

“What’s that for?”

“Oh—­well—­nothin’.  Some of ’em think I’m a fool for doin’ it.  The fac’ was—­I couldn’t quite git on with my comp’ny there?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that other boy what come last Toosday, and started sellin’ pipers at my corner.  You don’t know ’oo ’e is, p’r’aps, nor ’oo I am.”  I did not know, and I was very willing to get the story out of REGINALD.