I had almost finished when some boys came running out to play. They were little chaps in the inevitable black aprons, and on their heads the round sailor tams topped by a rosette. Some clustered around the artist, the rest looked over my shoulder. They began to take sides. "Pas mal çà," said one sitting on the curb beside me. "L'autre est mieux," genially put in another. At that several champions sprang magnanimously forward--I say magnanimously, for really my efforts weren't too successful. Age and weather and the piecemeal way in which the château was built have given it that irregularity which is charming. The towers tilt and the roofs sag in a way to make Bob's architectural soul recoil; but I have rendered these with such unstinted charm that in general perspective the château seems to have aged several centuries. One rosy eight-year-old shook his head and declared vehemently: "Je mettrais quinze jours â faire un tel dessein!" I asked him if they taught drawing in school. It seems that every Tuesday and Friday "one" draws pitchers and cups and casseroles and that day the whole class had drawn his whistle. One day they draw the map of États-Unis. "Oh," I said, "c'est de là que je viens, moi." Then began a thousand questions, and I related what wonders I could, for joy to see the many eyes grow rounder and rounder. There are buildings in New York--I told them--there were buildings in New York ten times as high as the château. "Pas possible!" was the general verdict. My eight-year-old pushed his way out of the crowd and ran to the corner of the street. "Dis donc, Julien!" he called out, "viens ici, écouter ce qu'il y a aux États-Unis!" Another boy came running from the house and joined him, and I saw him out of the corner of my eye, pointing out the tower of the château with astounding comments. I went on describing the elevators in the high buildings and how fast they went. But they had never seen an elevator. He who has missed a French elevator cannot complain of any great lack, but it certainly does heighten the difficulty of fifty-eight stories. I had finished. My pals started to go off, lured on by some one's "prelotte" (hop-scotch stone). I said, "Vous pouvez dire hop-scotch?" They all tried in different tones and tempos--and it was drôle comme tout. We all burst out laughing and I started on my way. "'Voir, Mam'selle," they called after me, lifting their "bonnets" and waving. I walked home smiling. What I should have missed if the sketch-book hadn't inspired me--or if French were an unknown tongue--or if you hadn't let me come to France!