hue of their complexions — might pass for
having been buried and dug up again; which
happens to them daily, barring the digging
up. Still, he takes the trouble to bring up
and down, every morning and night, that
collection of flower-pots and those two long
boxes; each of which contains a row of seedling
Queen Margarets or German asters. He
is more anxious to provide air and sunshine
for them than for his own progeny; because
his progeny, he thinks, can run about and
take care of themselves, which poor sedentary
stationary flowers cannot do. Do you feel
tempted to mount a ladder, and pluck the
bright yellow tuft of wall-flowers whose roots
are displacing the tiles on that roof? You
had better not. They grow in full view of
a score of garret- windows, and their perfume
is wafted to at least a dozen garetteers. The
populace would execrate you and stone you
out of the town, as certainly as if you had
killed a stork in Holland, or eaten a dish of
robin-redbreasts in England.

We are crossing the great place at
Dunkerque. It is a bright, breezy spring morning,
which puts the women's caps into aflutter, as
it has brought the colour into their cheeks.
We carry each a spacious basket, to amuse
ourselves with a little out-door shopping.
Leaving the interesting group of fishwomen,
who entreat us to buy with an energy of
gesture that would make us fear they were
going to tear us to pieces, here we are in the
midst of the vegetables, all fresh, clean, and I
had almost said perfumed. The Départment
du Nord may well be proud of her markets; for
the articles exposed are more inviting to look
at than ever they were when growing in the
open ground, or than they ever will be again,
unless they fall into the hands of a merciful
and artistic cook. At Le Havre, and
elsewhere, the vegetables offered for sale look as
if they had been kept a week under the green-
grocer's bed, to bring them to a proper state
of ripeness. But here, the piles of ivory leeks,
with their green tails tied up in a knot, like
horses on their way to a country fair, would
suffice to make Ancient Pistol's mouth water,
if it had not ceased watering long ago. What
tiny white turnips to economise! not bigger
than pullets' eggs; an English gardener
would have tossed them to his pigs. What
queer little bunches of tiny celery and other
pot-herbs, all to flavour the soup, soup, soup!
And sorrel, everlasting sorrel (a touch of
Hervey), green and tender in the first spring
leaves, claiming to take its place at present
on the tables of the luxurious only. By-and-
by it will condescend to the multitude, and
will then liberally make up for its present
reserved behaviour. And what, in Heaven's
name, are those ? Thongs to administer a
dose of knout? No, no; simply dried eel-
skins, for whips wherewith to thrash out
seed, gentle flails whose upper half is
composed of tough and elastic fish-leather.
Blanched dandelion, for salad! Could you

make up your mind to eat it ? And lo!
pungent horse-radish, a rarity on the continent,
starts milk-white and cane-like from
unsuspected beds to satisfy the cravings of English
captains. The baskets shaped like broad-
brimmed hats standing on their crowns, are
sadly deceptive in respect to their contents;
but precocity in herbs ought to be paid for.
Already there are little precursors of the
great Spanish radishes that are to be; besides
lovely bouquets of pleasing bonne-dame and
cooling purslane and brilliant bunches of
small short-horn carrots, that have all the
ornamental effect of cornelian and coral.
The nymph who sits in front of her legless
wheelbarrow, which is turned edgewise,
standing on one side, to serve as the
garden-wall by which she, the lovely passion-
flower is supported and sheltered — that full-
blown nymph might string those golden
carrots as a diadem, and form a green bird-of-
paradise plume out of their delicate waving
leaves.

Step now to the other side of the big,
unmeaning statue of Jean Bart, who looks as
if he were about to break his nose by
tumbling over the cannon that lies between his
legs, to a quite different department of the
market. Not that we want to bother
ourselves with butter and eggs, with fatted fowl,
or rabbits trussed to represent tailors sitting
at ease, with their legs a-kimbo. A truce to
housekeeping cares, for a while. There, in
orderly row, are Flemish wives and maidens,
each with a little assortment of blooms and
flower-roots; for in the early sunshiny days
of the year, it is a natural and instinctive
duty to be-flower one's-self. We have
undertaken to arrange a young lady's pleasure-
ground; here are a few materials to begin
with. Forget-me-not, for one sou, after a
little bargaining about the sou-venir. Hen-
and-chicken daisy, for two sous, the price
demanded. White and crimson double daisy;
ditto, ditto each. Beautiful shortlegged,
round-headed, double stock, " five sous,
mademoiselle!" " You are pleasanting, I will
give you three." " Impossible; imposseeble!"
"Not a liard more than three sous. I will
go and look at those on the other side."
"Take it, my brave man. To the pleasure;
to the next time." Double violet, two sous;
double scarlet anemone (perfect), two sous,
also. And then, here's the great flowerist all
the way from Lille, by railway. Alas, alas,
that such temptations must be resisted! New-
fashioned, round-leaved, Dutch tree-mignouette,
covered with bloom, and I dare not
remember how tall, only a franc and a few score
centimes! But we should break it to smash,
and pound it into spinach before we got it
home. "This," I knowingly remarked to
myself, "is a very, very curious double
primrose; in England it would be worth — " and,
before I can mentally say another syllable, a
straw-hatted, elderly lady whips the whole
of the sample into her capped domestic's