The celebrated Pre'-aux-Clercs, now known as the 



Marche Saint Germain, is, as everybody knows, on Sundays, 



the Bird Market of Paris. The place has more than one 



claim on our curiosity. It is a vast menagerie, frequently 



renewed — a shifting, strange museum of French ornithology. 



On the other hand, stich an auction of living beings, 



of captives many of whom feel their captivity, of slaves 



whom the auctioneer exposes, sells, and values more or less 



adroitly, indirectly reminds one, after all, of the markets of 



'^■jr the East, the auctions of human slaves. The winged 



iL slaves, without understanding our languages, do not the 



1 less vividly express the thought of servitude ; some, born in 



1;^ this condition, are resigned to it; others, sombre and silent, 



dream ever of fi-eedom. Not a few appear to address themselves to 



you, seem desirous of arresting the passer-by's attention, and ask only 



for a good master. How often have we seen an intelligent goldfinch, 



an amiable robin, regarding us with a mournful gaze, but a gaze by 



no means doubtful in its meaninii', for it said : "Buy me !" 



