ONE OF THE FEATHERY ISLANDS
Near by this bonbonnière, in the shade of the overhanging trees, a gouty old gentleman beneath a green cotton umbrella watches intently a tiny red quill floating midway up his line, altho it has given no signal of alarm for hours.
A gentle breeze shirrs the surface of the water. The old gentleman pours a little vin ordinaire into a glass, rebaits his hook, and lights a fresh cigar. Masses of white clouds overhead float in the clear blue sky.
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
A SLEEPY VILLAGE
Just around the point of the island another boat is moored to two long poles. In it a young man sits fishing; his sweetheart, who a night ago had been dining at Maxime’s exquisitely gowned, is now by his side in a calico wrapper and a straw garden-hat, the brim of which is pulled down until all that remains visible of her face is the tip of her retroussé nose, her rosebud mouth and her adorable dimpled chin.
Shouts and shrieks of laughter come from other boats tied along this quiet stretch of the river.
Tiny villas, their gardens gay in geraniums, skirt the edge of the stream, where on little wharves sheltered by awnings other Parisians spend the day a fishing. On one of these an old lady in a black silk dress reclines in an armchair, her fishing-rod thrust in a convenient rest, while she occupies herself with her fancy work, talking at intervals to her husband, a dapper little man in a white waistcoat. The family butler has just brought him a fresh pailful of bait, the first supply having been exhausted in the capture of two diminutive goujons, a delicate little fish playing an important part in every friture along the Seine. It is served like whitebait, crisp and garnished with watercress and lemon. Opposite my own boat there is another villa half hidden in the tangle of a pretty garden full of roses.
