The character of the people becomes more primitive. I row on past La Frette, a red-and-white town snug against a hillside checkered with vineyards. At evening I reach Herblay, and a quaint inn with a tiled kitchen shining in polished copper. The town is very small, very crooked and very old. Boat-loads of peasants, many of them in coats of sheepskins, returned at evening from their work in the fields.
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
A RED-AND-WHITE TOWN
Photo by F. Berkeley Smith
A SEINE LOCK
It takes a week to reach Havre from Paris by tow. At the locks tow-lines are slipped and the procession drifts into the big basins by twos. Slowly the iron gates close, and the boats sink gradually to the lower level. As slowly the gates open at the other end; tow-lines are rehitched, and the procession goes on its way. By the side of the big lock there is a narrower one for the passing through of smaller craft. This, for a few sous, the lockman will grind open for you. But more often you arrive in time to go through at the tail end of a tow and without the slightest trouble. Evidently the dangers of the locks existed only in the mind of my landlord at Poissy, which town now lay just below.
It takes barely an hour to reach Poissy from Paris by train, but by the twisting Seine it is a long way.
It seemed good to get to the Esturgeon again. The veranda overhanging the river was already crowded with Parisians, and every automobile that thundered over the bridge brought more.