BASIN OF APOLLO IN THE PARK OF VERSAILLES. 
is the most pleasing to me. Standing by its pellu- 
cid surface, one may see the reflected images of the 
god and his chariot and enjoy the broad esplanade, 
flanked by an out-door art gallery of marbles set 
against a leafy curtain, and stretching away to the 
grand old chateau at the end. Not far 
away is the tiny building of the Petit 
Trianon, where, many times, lovely Ma- 
rie Antoinette saw her double in the pool 
of living water, sometimes so calm, 
sometimes so gay with diamond-tinted 
jets, which danced into the startled air 
only to fall back and rest again on the 
quiet bosom of the pool. But the ill- 
fated queen was most attached to the 
waters of Fountainebleau which derived 
its name from the tradition that a dog 
named Bleau once led his master, wTio 
was nearly dead of thirst, to a natural 
fountain on the site where, at a later 
date, the old chateau was erected. We 
little know how many human lives, be- 
sides those of bird and beast, have been 
saved by the existence of a fountain. 
One should be found in every town and 
city square, at every intersection of sev- 
eral streets, and every country crossing 
of any importance. 
One of the most comforting as well 
as attractive resorts in Paris is the court 
of the Petit Palais with its handsome 
drinking fountains and succession of mo- 
saic bordered pools : and another is the 
leafy spot in the Luxembourg gardens, 
close to the old Fontaine de Medicis. 
The bird fountains, so common in 
Paris, might well be imitated in any 
home garden where water is conducted. Like the 
drinking font, these may be simple or highl}’ decora- 
tive, as the taste inclines, and may be inscribed with 
proverbs or the sentiments of the designer. Bird 
fountains are most attractively set in Spain, where, in 
the Moorish gardens of the Alhambra and 
Generalife, they intersperse the basins 
and canals and with their frolicsome gur- 
gles, prove a charming foil to the silence 
of the courts where still waters lie be- 
tween hedges of myrtle. One moonlight 
night, when I passed from the Court of 
the Myrtles at the Alhambra, into the 
Court of the Lions, the moon’s pale rays 
seemed to dip fingers into the basin of 
alabaster above the marble beasts, and 
trail them across the narrow canals, 
where the red blood of slain Abencerra- 
ges once darkened the crystal waters of 
the Darro, as it gushed from the many 
spouts. A green lizard, disturbed, crept 
lazily from a crevice in the basin, and 
made his slow progress to the intersec- 
tion of the twin flags in the floor of the 
adjoining hall, which, by virtue of their 
uniformity, have given the room .the 
name, “Hall of the Two Sisters.” The 
air was heavy with the scent of orange 
blossoms that entered by way of the win- 
dow in this little hall, and as 1 leaned 
against its casement and looked back at 
the circle of lions’ heads about the foun- 
tain, I remembered those lines of Mat- 
thew Arnold’s : 
“The silent courts, where night and day. 
Into their stone carved basins cold. 
The splashing icy fountains play.” 
THE OGRE, GROTESQUE 
FOUNTAIN AT BERNE. 
