Mberc tbe /lDocfting»t)irI> Stngs 



vironment. Over yonder in New Orleans, 

 at a second-hand book-stall on Royal 

 Street, you may find mildewed copies of 

 books brought from Paris before the time 

 of Casa Calvo. Some of these show the 

 scholarly temperament and taste of the 

 French Creole of the old days. If you 

 have secured the right one, turn its musty 

 leaves as you swing in the wind, and you 

 can almost hear the Hit of the troubadours. 

 Your entourage is meridional and in a way 

 medieval; there is a fine correspondence 

 between the book and the atmosphere. 

 Actually, the other day two dreamy peas- 

 ant-looking girls strolled arm-in-arm past 

 me, one of them singing a snatch from 

 Ronsard : 



Mignonne, allons voir si la rose, 

 Qui ce matin avoit desclose 

 Sa robe de pourpre au soleil, 



and so on, as they disappeared amid the 

 low-hanging moss of a live-oak grove. 



A Creole mocking-bird took up the 

 gay strain, so it sounded, fitting the spirit 

 of it to an avian mood. I could tell by 

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