154 LIFE OF AUDUBON. 



appointed. However, the book was opened accidentally at the 

 plate of the parrots, and Gerard, taking it np without speaking, 

 looked at it with an eye as critical as my own for several 

 minutes, put it down, and took up the mocking-birds, and then 

 offering me his hand, said, ' Mr. Audubon, you are the king of 

 ornithological painters. We are all children in France or 

 Europe. Who would have expected such things from the woods 

 of America ?' I received compliments on all sides, and Gerard 

 talked of nothing but my work, and asked me to give him some 

 prospectuses to send to Italy. He also repeated what Baron 

 Cuvier had said in the morning, and hoped that the Minister 

 would order a number of copies for the government. I closed 

 the book, and sauntered around the room, admiring the superb 

 prints, mostly taken from his own paintings. The ladies were all 

 engaged at cards, and money did not appear to be scarce in this 

 part of Paris. Mrs. Gerard is a small, fattish woman, to whom 

 I made a bow, and saw but for a moment. The ladies were 

 dressed very finely, quite in a new fashion to me, pointed 

 corsets before, with some hanging trimmings, and very full 

 robes of rich and differently-coloured satins and other materials. 



" October 20. Nothing to do, and fatigued with looking at 

 Paris. Four subscriptions in seven weeks is very slow work. . . 

 . . The stock-pigeon, or cushat, roosts in the trees of the garden 

 of the Tuileries in considerable numbers. They arrive about 

 sunset, settle at first on the highest trees and driest naked 

 branches, then gradually lower themselves to the trunks of the 

 trees and the thickest parts of the foliage, and remain there all 

 night. They leave at the break of day, and fly off in a 

 northerly direction. Blackbirds also do the same, and are ex- 

 tremely noisy before dark ; some few rooks and magpies are 

 seen there also. In the Jardin or walks of the Palais Eoyal the 

 common sparrows are prodigiously plentiful, very tame, fed by 

 ladies and children, and often killed with blowguns by mis- 

 chievous boys. The mountain finch passes in scattered numbers 

 over Paris at this season, going northerly. And now, my love, 

 wouldst thou not believe me once more in the woods, and hard 

 at it ? Alas ! I wish I were. What precious time I am losing 

 in this Europe ! When shall I go home ? 



" October 26. I have not written for several days, because 



