“In the name of all that’s good what is all this about?” exclaimed the Professor. “Why, Tibbitts, all this French you have taken from this bill of fare here. Pomme de Terre, means simply potato, and Poisson is fish, Mouton is mutton, and Fromage is cheese. You are not going to send this to your mother?”
“Ain’t I though! The good old girl don’t read French, and this will do just as well as any I ever saw in anybody’s novel. It shows that I have not neglected my opportunities. Send it? You bet!”
And he did fold it, and put it into an envelope, and after several frantic endeavors he made the boy understand that he wanted a postage stamp, and in the box it went.
And now that I come to think of it, I am not sure but that Tibbitts was right. If French phrases must be used in English writing, why not take them from a bill of fare? So far as the general public goes they would do just as well. I have no doubt but his French will pass muster, twelve miles back of Oshkosh.
Leaving Rouen with its rich mediæval architecture, its quaint streets and lovely parks, we cross the Seine and are whirling along at a rapid rate towards Paris, the center of the gay world. As we approach the metropolis several beautiful cities are passed, the principal one being Poissy, a town of fifty thousand inhabitants, which was the birth place of St. Louis, who frequently styled himself “Louis de Poissy.”
At Asnieres, the Seine is crossed for the last time, and in a few minutes Cluney is reached, and away over to the right may be seen the tomb of Napoleon, its gilt dome sparkling in the sunlight. Here we pass the fortifications and in another brief interval are in the station at Rue St. Lazarre, and before us with all its beauty is Paris.
In Paris the first American I met was Bloss, my circus friend. He had succeeded in getting his “wonder” in Germany, and in Switzerland he had purchased two bears, which he had with him.
