544 



THE NATIONAL, GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



are 



told 



He 



LAST MOMENTS Of 



NAPOLEON : 

 FRANCE 



Something akin to awe masters the Tommie as he stands before this 

 block of insensate marble, which depicts with such solemnity the final 

 hour of that restless genius at whose word princes and principalities 

 sprung into being; dying, his only realm of rule the crumpled map 

 upon which he traced the boundaries of his former conquests. 



"though you'd scarcely believe it, are not 

 natural at all, but artificial." 



I talk on, and on, and try to make my 

 little lecture entertaining, for by this time 

 I know that everybody present needs a 

 rest. So we take it here, under the old, 

 old trees, which almost meet over the 

 ever-present statue of Louis, this time in 

 the company of his ministering maidens. 

 Even the custodian obligingly sits down 

 and waits patiently until I again give the 

 sign to "fall in." 



He knows that "permissions" to Paris 



scarce, for I've 

 him about that, 

 knows that the 

 biggest and best fight- 

 ing man is only a tired 

 little kiddie at heart, 

 and he knows above 

 everything else that 

 some of today's num- 

 ber are seeing their 

 last bit of beauty. 



Pretty soon, after a 

 hasty glance at my 

 watch, I say : "On our 

 weary way. On with 

 the mad pursuit of 

 Art and Information." 

 Then, with a great 

 stretching of arms and 

 legs and a few ill- 

 disguised yawns, we 

 pass again through the 

 high bronze gate, all 

 but the smiling guide 

 poorer by a few pen- 

 nies. 



We wander through 

 long avenues of stately 

 plane - trees w hose 

 bark has disappeared, 

 leaving the bare and 

 beautiful yellow of the 

 trunk to remind us 

 that autumn is again 

 with us. We pass and 

 admire the fountains 

 of the Four Seasons, 

 the stunning one of 

 Hercules, and the 

 prettv one called "The 

 Sheaf of Wheat." 



We are on our way 

 to the handsomest one 

 of all, that of Apollo in his chariot 

 drawn by high-stepping, splashing horses. 

 Xow we come to a little lane which I 

 love. It is narrow and shadowy, and so 

 still that the rustling of the ivy leaves 

 which cover all the trees seems almost 

 loud. 



"THE TINIEST LEAF FOR THE ONE WAITING 

 AT HOME" 



I stop in the center of the roadway, 

 and when the last straggler has caught 

 up I again make a little speech. I say: 



© H. C. White Company 

 PALACE OF VERSAILLES, 



