In Normandy the street cries seem to be all in the major key. I noticed this especially at Rouen, and here again at Dieppe; the minor key is absent in them. They are, too, a distinctly musical sentence in themselves. A sweet little melody was being sung up one street in Dieppe along which I was passing, by two fish-women carrying a basket of fish between them. One man who came along playing bagpipes, from time to time, to notify the approach of his wares, paused to cry out in a loud tone what sounded like: "I have not got it to-day, but I shall have it to-morrow!" Dieppe has the same sort of blank-Casino-stare-of-sightless eyes, as had Arcachon; only the former place, being a town on its own foundation, as it were, and not brought into prominence by the parasitical growth in its midst, of the Casino, is not so dominated by it. The two venerable round towers, with their conical, red-tiled peaks stand alone, unaffected by the modern hotels and buildings on the front, which surround them. Somehow, though, I could never understand exactly why they should so insistently suggest Tweedledum and Tweedledee, yet they did again and again bring those worthies into my mind whenever I looked at them. They stand at some little distance from the grand old castle which has seen the things that they have also seen in those far-away bygone ages. The castle, stands greyly aloof and apart, high on its hill, banked up by serrated chalk cliffs and grey expanse of wall. The hotel at which we put up in the town was a charming old panelled house, dating two or three hundred years back; perhaps longer even than that. The ceilings slanted, and the walls contained those delightful deep cupboards which are such a joy to those who possess them. Also there were the little steps up and down leading from one room into another; steps which project the unwary into the future, sometimes too soon for their comfort. Opening out of the first floor was an outside promenade, with balcony which led one out among a perfect wilderness of roofs; steep roofs of ancient, well-worn red tiles, whereon the soft velvet feet of the moss climb down step by step to the edge of sudden precipitous gables, crowned with white pinnacles, all backed by a venerable-looking red brick wall which had lost a tooth here and there of its first row, and never had others to fill the holes. Then, further along, through a gap in the wall, one caught sight of the splendid, deep, wavy red brick roof of the house opposite, with three little holes pierced above, two tiny dormer windows, and, below these, two larger ones. Below them, again, the soft yellow-cream cob wall. It was quite an ideal spot in which to dream on a hot summer's day; but though to admire, yet not to linger in during a November one.