Walking one evening in the Champs Elysees, I found a little family of
singers from the Alps, underneath one of the large trees. You should
have heard them sing their native songs, so plaintive and yet so mild.
Father and mother, two little sisters and a brother, were begging their
bread in that way. They were dressed very neatly, although evidently
extremely poor. The father had a violin which he played very sweetly,
the mother sang, the two little girls danced, and the boy put in a soft
and melancholy tenor. I hardly ever listened to sadder music. It seemed
as if their hearts were in it, saddened at the thought of exile from
their native mountains. After singing for a long time, they stopped and
looked up appealingly to the crowd--but not a sou fell to the ground.
Once more they essayed to sing, with a heavier sorrow upon their faces,
for they were hungry and had no bread. They stopped again--not a
solitary sou was given to them. A large tear rolled down the cheek of
the father--you should have seen the answering impulse of the crowd--how
the sous rattled upon the ground. They saw instantly that it was no
common beggar before them, but one who deserved their alms. At once, as
if a heaven full of clouds had divided and the sunshine flashed full
upon their faces, the band of singers grew radiant and happy. Such is
life--a compound of sorrow and gayety.

The Parisian omnibus system is the best in the world, and I found it
very useful and agreeable always while wandering over the city. The
vehicles are large and clean, and each passenger has a chair fastened
firmly to the sides of the carriage. Six sous will carry a person
anywhere in Paris, and if two lines are necessary to reach the desired
place, a ticket is given by the conductor of the first omnibus, which
entitles the holder to another ride in the new line. The omnibus system
is worked to perfection only in Paris, and is there a great blessing to