I have often wished I could have the faith of some Christians in the power of the Holy Book and, when I wanted to decide anything of importance, just open it to any page, put my finger on a spot, and proceed according to the instructions thereupon given. I have the gambler’s instinct, but perhaps only for little things, and while I have never gone to the Bible for material guidance, I have many times employed the childish quotation, “My mother says that I shall do this”—pointing a finger at each word—and following the lead. This does not always prove a happy method of selecting one’s future, but I think it is as near as one can come to it. There is only one case where I am certain it cannot fail, and that is for a very good reason—there is a prize package at the end of _every_ string. If you stand in the center of Paris and start in any direction toward its environs, you will end at a place more charming than you can imagine. I have tried this experiment many times and have never been disappointed. Carrière St.-Denis was discovered quite accidentally by two of my painter friends, and it was only after a long time that they let me in on the secret. Having traveled out of the city on the railway as far as Nanterre, you take your courage in your hands and get off at this place, which seems to have nothing more interesting than endless fields of vegetables. Despair not; cross the tracks and walk steadily on until you come to a canal. Here is a wooded island whose banks look like nothing so much as the old fishing place on the Concord River at home. All is quiet, with no signs of human habitation until you come to a post across from which a boat is tied. Here you must stop, put your hands to your mouth to form a trumpet, and cry: “_Passeur!_”—”_Passeur!_” After about the second call will come the answer, “_Attendez!_” and down the path from his little hut, which is entirely concealed by the trees, comes an old man bearing upon his shoulder a pair of oars. Without speaking a word, he comes over, you get into the boat, and he rows you across the canal, where, very gravely, he leaves the skiff and, again carrying the oars, he walks with you across the island. Here you are at the Seine, but a part of the river that you have not known before. Another boat is waiting, again the old man rows you over, but this time you land upon a gravelly beach flanked by a cliff so steep that you despair of ever climbing it.