There are few more irritating sounds, I think, than a creak, whether it be of the human boot or of a door. Of the many penances which have been devised from time to time could there be a more irritating form of nerve flagellation than an insistent, recurring squeak when you are vainly endeavouring to write an article, an important letter, or, if it be night, to get to sleep? A squeak in two parts, as this particular one was, was calculated to make one ready for any deed of violence! One knew so well when one must expect to hear it, that it got in time to be like the hole in a stocking which, as an old nurse's dictum ran, one "looks for, but hopes never to find!" Thus one half unconsciously listened for the creak. So great is the power of the Insignificant Thing! There were other sounds which broke the stillness of the night at Arcachon. In England cocks crow, according to well-authenticated tradition, handed down from cock to cock from primitive times, at daybreak; in Arcachon they crow all through the night and, indeed, keep time with the hours. They have, too, a more elaborate and ornate crow. They do not accentuate, as ours do, the final "doo," but introduce instead semi-quavers in the "dle;" so that it sounds thus: "Cock-a-doo-a-doo-dle-doo." I noticed that they had a tendency to leave off awhile at daybreak, while it was yet dark. Then, sounding mysteriously and from afar on one's ear, came the quick tones of the bell calling to early Mass from the little church in the village street below. Of ancient history Arcachon has its share. It was, in the thirteenth century, the port of the Boiens, and in old records one finds it mentioned under the name "Aecaixon" or "Arcasson," "Arcanson" being a word used to designate one of the resin manufactures. In the beginning of things, Arcachon was nothing but a desert, its forest surrounding the little chapel founded by Thomas Illyricus for the seamen. During the whole of the middle ages the country had the entire monopoly of the pine oil industry, which was turned to account in so many ways. CHAPTER III At Arcachon there is an old _Chapelle miraculeuse de Notre Dame_, adjoining the newer church, founded about 1520 by Thomas Illyricus. It contains many of the fishermen's votive offerings, such as life-belts, stilts, pieces of rope, and boats and wreaths. I noticed, too, a barrel, on which were the words "_Echappé dans le golfe du Méxique, 1842_." These offerings are hung up near the chancel, and give a distinct character to it. As we came into the little church, a child's funeral was just leaving it, the coffin borne by children. We waited by the door till the sad little procession had gone by, and before me, as I write, there rises in my memory the expression on the father's face. It had something in it that was absolutely unforgettable. Illustration: ARCACHON, MIRACULOUS CHAPEL, 1722. [_Page 40._