It is impossible to give precise data respecting the store of provisions now in Paris, nor even were I able would it be fair to do so. As a matter of private opinion, however, I do not think that it will be possible to prolong the resistance beyond the first week in January at the latest. Last Sunday there were incipient bread-riots. By one o'clock all the bakers had closed their shops in the outer faubourg. There had been a run upon them, because a decree had been issued in the morning forbidding flour to be sold, and requisitioning all the biscuits in stock. Government immediately placarded a declaration that bread was not going to be requisitioned, and the explanation of the morning's decree is that flour and not corn has run short, but that new steam-mills are being erected to meet the difficulty. _La Verite_, a newspaper usually well informed, says that for some days past the flour which had been stored in the town by M. Clement Duvernois has been exhausted, and that we are now living on the corn and meal which was introduced at the last moment from the neighbouring departments. It gives the following calculation of our resources--flour three weeks, corn three months, salt meat fifteen days, horse two months. The mistake of all these calculations seems to be that they do not take into account the fact that more bread or more corn will be eaten when they become the sole means of providing for the population. Thus the daily return of flour sold in Paris is about one-third above the average. The reason is simple, and yet it seems to occur to no one. French people, more particularly the poorer classes, can exist upon much less than Englishmen; but the prospect for any one blessed with a good appetite is by no means reassuring. In the Rue Blanche there is a butcher who sells dogs, cats, and rats. He has many customers, but it is amusing to see them sneak into the shop after carefully looking round to make sure that none of their acquaintances are near. A prejudice has arisen against rats, because the doctors say that their flesh is full of trichinae. I own for my part I have a guilty feeling when I eat dog, the friend of man. I had a slice of a spaniel the other day, it was by no means bad, something like lamb, but I felt like a cannibal. Epicures in dog flesh tell me that poodle is by far the best, and recommend me to avoid bull dog, which is coarse and tasteless. I really think that dogs have some means of communicating with each other, and have discovered that their old friends want to devour them. The humblest of street curs growls when anyone looks at him. _Figaro_ has a story that a man was followed for a mile by a party of dogs barking fiercely at his heels. He could not understand to what their attentions were due, until he remembered that he had eaten a rat for his breakfast. The friend of another journalist, who ate a dog called Fox, says that whenever anyone calls out "Fox" he