At La Teste, a village close to Arcachon, the women much affect the high-crowned black straw hat, blue aprons and blue knickerbockers. At most of the cottage doors were groups of them, knitting and chatting; and, as we passed, the old grandmother of the party would be irresistibly impelled to step out into the road to catch a further glimpse of the strangers within their borders--clad in quite as unusual garments as their own appeared to ours. There are no lack of variety of occupations open to the feminine persuasion: the women light the street lamps; they arrange and pack oysters; fish, and sell the fish when caught. They work in the fields; they tend the homely cow, as well as the three occupations which some folk will persist in regarding as the only ones to which women--never mind what their talents or capabilities--can expect to be admitted, viz: the care of children and needlework and cooking! I saw one quite old woman white-washing the front of her cottage with a low-handled, mop-like broom, very energetically, while her husband sat by and watched the process, at his ease. La Teste stands out in my memory as a village of musical streets, though of course in the Gironde it is the exception when one does not hear little melodious sentences set to some street call or other. As we passed up the village street, a woman was coming down carrying a basket of rogans, a little silvery fish with dazzling, gleaming sides, and crying, "_Derrr ... verai!_" "_Derrr ... verai!_" with long sustained accent on the final high note. "_Marchandise!_" was another call which sounded continually, and its variation, "_Marchan-dis ... e!_" Passing through Bordeaux, I remember a very curiously sounding street-hawk note: it did not end at all as one expected it to end. I could not distinguish the words, and was not near enough to see the ware. * * * * * But the human voice was not the only street music, for as we sat on one of the benches that are so thoughtfully placed under the lee of many of the cottages at La Teste, there fell on our ears a sound from a distance which somehow suggested the approach of a Chinese procession: "Pom-pom-pom-pom-pom-pom!" mixed with the sharp "ting-ting" of brass, and the duller, flatter tone of wood, sweet because of the suggestion of the trickling of water which it conveys. A procession of cows turned the corner of the long street and moved sedately towards us, their bells keeping time with their footsteps, their conductor, as seems the custom in these parts, leading the detachment. It was followed by a little cart drawn by two dogs, in which sat a countrywoman, much too heavy a weight for the poor animals to drag.