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the poplar-trees, the wheat-fields looked yellow 

 through the city gates, the poppies along the 

 hedgerows stood out in scarlet contrast, the Cafe 

 du Lion d'Or was covered with flags and with red 

 ribbons in honor of Jacques, while the Cafe de la 

 Comedie was similarly draped in blue in honor of 

 his rival. The people were out in their best clothes 

 and Issoire-made boots, and the candidates were 

 among them, all smiles and attention, though I 

 thought that a. slightly misanthropic expression 

 lurked about the big workman's mouth. 



The bands played, and rival processions moved 

 about in the street. The longest of these carried 

 banners inscribed " Vive 1'Octroi ! A bas Cler- 

 mont ! Le Surplus toujours ! De Roncevalle for- 

 ever !" Everybody seemed falling into line; and 

 so I followed, keeping step with the music. 



All at once I heard a fearful, blood-curdling 

 scream. The procession swiftly dissolved, the 

 music ceased, the banners vanished. I rubbed my 

 eyes and looked about me. I was sitting on an 

 inverted nail-keg at the Glermont gate just out- 

 side the city of Issoire. The old gendarme who 

 guarded the gate was slowly drawing a dripping 

 sword out of a large bundle of oats, in which he 

 had thrust it while performing his duty as inspec- 

 tor. Within the oats was great excitement. The 

 contraband pig concealed inside was lustily kick- 

 ing and filling the- air with his frantic screams. 



And thus I knew that the city had been saved, 

 for the octroi was still going on. 



And it is going on yet. 



