first looking over the wall to see if their roots were in the water, my eye was arrested by a strange-looking house-boat of abnormal size. A second glance showed that there was not one, but a whole line of them, stretching between the Pont Louis-Phillippe and the Pont Sully. A broad veranda surrounded each construction, and blooming geranium plants as well as climbing vines were placed most attractively in various niches and along the walls. A kind of wooden gang-plank was stretched from the narrow bank to the entrance and a sign over the door announced, Bateaux Lavoirs (Wash-boats).

It is here, then, that the Parisian's washing is brought to be laundered, for as yet the installation of galvanized tubs in private houses and apartments is unknown.

Some of the boats are extremely old, if I am to believe the sign borne by one of them which says: "Bateau Lavoir du Pont St. Paul, 1623"; but on hearing that most of them have accepted modern improvements, I was somewhat reassured and decided to pay them a visit. I was surprised to find the whole composed of several constructions, grouped together and attached to one another. Four parallel corridors divide the boat into as many compartments, which in turn are subdivided into individual chambers by rows of columns from which are suspended roller-curtains. It therefore follows that there are two aisles of wash rooms that look onto the river and two that are on the interior. Those on the outside are protected from the wind and rain by a window pane placed horizontally above their opening, while those within are sheltered by the common roof. Each separate compartment is supplied with a washboard which is placed in the opening and a trifle above. the water's edge. Here the laundress soaps, beats, and rubs her clothes. Then bending slightly forward, she is able to rinse them in the current.

Each boat has a steam-motor of sufficient force to turn a beating machine and a wringer, and at the same time it serves to pump out the water that often filters in from below.

There was a time when it would not have been prudent to venture among these washwomen, whose language is almost as audacious as that of their sisters aux halles. Perhaps my visit was ill-timed or else

things have changed, and the laundress of tradition no longer exists, for I was permitted to go my way without receiving splashes of any description. Certain it is, however, that their conversation does not lack animation, and biting truths are revealed about absent members who, by the way, are always in the wrong.

During my visit I saw several strangelooking beings circulating in the corridors, stopping now and then to chat with a laundress. Among others was an old sailor who had contraband matches to sell; a travelling salesman with handkerchiefs, two for three cents, and still another vender who offered fur boas at forty-nine cents each, with the muff to match for as much more. Hearing the price, my curiosity got the better of me and I examined the articles for sale. How do they do it? I wondered. How can it be possible to furnish the merchandise at that price? Where does it come from? By what means is it obtained? are questions I have asked myself time and again, but have never been able to resolve.

Most of the men managed to find a customer or two and departed, more or less enchanted by their sales.

Silence reigned in the corridors for at least three minutes, and then a heavy step was heard at the entrance. All the women looked up, their eager eyes betraying their expectancy. Presently an old woman with piercing eyes and a fantastic bonnet appeared and hobbled down the passage way. Each laundress loudly claimed her entire attention, and it was only when she took a deck of cards from her pocket and each one in turn drew from the pack, that I understood her vocation. She was a fortuneteller

"A toi la rousse" she cried, and then the seance commenced. Each person in turn had her future predicted, either by the cards or by letters pricked with a pin, and all seemed deeply impressed by the prophesies.

The old hag gave them their money's worth, I assure you, and even at two sous le petit jeu and three le grand I am convinced she had tucked away many a comfortable little sum. As I was leaving I heard her saying to a poor half-crippled creature, "Dear child, I see a dark-eyed handsome young man coming in your direction." And the girl lifted toward her two

wonderful blue eyes wherein sparkled the joy of so beautiful a dream.

Marchande d'illusions, marchande d'espoir, I doubt if she would have found much commerce among the many sturdy fishermen who from every boat-landing, from every bridge, from every wall in the entire quarter cast their lines, which are attached to long bamboo poles.

What is it that fascinates them? From my window I have watched for hours at a time, but never as yet have I seen a single fish drawn from the water. At first, I took these placid creatures for philosophers who came to the river's bank to let their thoughts drift along with their lines in the current. But on closer examination I discovered what was to me an unknown science (perhaps it is an art), in the measured movements, attentive eyes, and rigid features of these dauntless sportsmen, who watch for a bite much as a wild beast lies in wait for his prey.

One day, when pressed for time, I accosted one of them, asking if he were aware how soon the next boat passed. From the way in which he turned toward me and uttered "Ssh!" I understood what strange and boundless passion guides these tranquil Parisian fishermen.

Wet or dry, when the frost is white on the window panes, or when the asphalt melts under foot, risking pneumonia and sunstrokes, I see them every day of my life, men and sometimes women, hanging over the walls or gathered along the banks.

Our old concierge, who, from her lodge in our house, saw the Siege of Paris and the Commune in 1870, told me that when the Hôtel de Ville was aflame, and shot fell thick and fast along the quays, four or five of these intrepid anglers continued their occupation, baiting their lines and patiently waiting for the fish to bite, as though nothing were the matter.

It was on the shores of the Seine, next to our island, that the first cold baths were established and their origin is most curious.

In 1781 a certain Turquin had the idea of placing in a boat several bath-tubs, held on a level with the river by means of a wooden floor. Pierced by tiny holes permitting the current to enter and thus constantly change the water, each tub was enclosed in a kind of cabin and was sufficiently large to hold as many as three persons at a time. This

establishment known as the "Chinese Baths" had such a great success that Turquin soon opened another on a larger scale, where each person had a separate cabin and all plunged into a common pool.

It is such a building in the form of a hollow square that appears every June and is anchored at the foot of the Pont Louis-Phillippe. There it stays all during the summer months, well patronized by men and boys who for six sous obtain a cabin, a towel and a lesson in swimming, if they care to take it.

It is between the Bain du Terrain, as it is now called, and the opposite shore that the water sports of Paris take place. Swimmers and oarsmen from all over the world come there every season and delight the amateurs of aquatic entertainment. On the days when the "Joutes Lyonnaises" (tilters from Lyons) are advertised, a grand stand is raised on the shore, seats are placed on the canal boats that are anchored so as to block the current, and a military band is procured, not so much to amuse the public as to make a noise and prevent those in the tilting match from hearing the uncomplimentary cries of the crowd, if things don't go to suit its taste.

Toward the end of September a tug boat comes and tows away the Bain du Terrain to its winter quarters. Shortly after its departure a black-looking canal boat makes its appearance on the opposite shore. In a week's time four others have joined it, and this group forms what is known as the Parisian apple market (Marché aux pommes). Often, when crossing the bridge. early on frosty October mornings, I have seen great wagons drive down to the water's edge and there receive basket after basket of ruddy winter apples.

The wholesale market takes place from six A.M. until noon, and after that one can see all the maids in the quarter hurrying in that direction so as to have first choice when buying their daily supply.

Sometimes, in passing, my desire to taste a lucious Pippin has been so strong as to lead me to descend the cobbled driveway that leads from the sidewalk to the landing, and visit the marchands de pommes. They all know me now, and every season they have some new and amusing tale to tell, some new variety to show me, or some question to ask.