Abstract

In the Driftway

Paris, France, has become a passion with Americans. They mutter dreamily of wandering over the Ile Saint Louis at dawn or of sitting in the Luxembourg at sunset or walking along the Seine after dark, they discourse of Barsac and Chablis, of onion soup and wild strawberries of the Ocleon and the Beaux Arts, of boulevards and stone-floored rooms and the Place de la Concorde. One does not yield to anyone in the delight in the grace and loveliness or the picturesque squalor of Paris. The sight of a gleaming brass spigot in a courtyard with moss growing between the cobblestones and a bust of Racine to set off the whole is a sight to make the heart leap. One never tires of watching the beggars along the river lying on potato sacks as they drink their red wine.