“He also keeps pigeons at his private residence,” states M. Bertrand. “If he heard you wanted one of his State birds, he would have you arrested.” “So,” I sigh, “there is nothing to be done.” And sympathetically M. Bertrand replies: “Alas, my poor, lovesick one, nothing. I regret it with all my heart, but you must tell the blonde, adorable miss that birds of the State may fly only for their own country.” Then up speaks M. Durand, and I learn that the 15,000 State birds in Paris are being wonderfully looked after, even spoilt. Never such comfortable, pleasant dovecots; never such plentiful, excellent fare! “It is to be hoped,” concludes M. Durand, “that they are not being overfed, and that they are not contracting idle, luxurious habits; for that would be disastrous.” And here I rise. And after I have taken leave of MM. Durand and Bertrand, I go to the nearest post office and send Miss Ethel Grahame the following expensive telegram:— “Deeply sorry no pigeon available. Have done my very best. Writing full particulars. Can only say meanwhile that every pigeon in France has been proclaimed a Bird of the State.” 3. AFTER THE STORM AT VILLENEUVE-ST-GEORGES Down here at Villeneuve-St-Georges, the sandpit district ten miles away from Paris, there has been a savage collision between the soldiers and the strikers. The sandpit men—some five or six thousand powerful navvies in all—raised barricades in the narrow, cobbled streets. When the dragoons and cuirassiers advanced, they were met with shower upon shower of flints, bottles, bricks. Revolvers, too, were fired at them. From windows, guns were discharged. Rising in his stirrups, an officer at last shouted forth the terrible official ultimatum: “Retire! Let all good citizens withdraw, for we are about to use force and arms.” Then, three bugle calls: the final warning. But still the officer hesitated to give the order to open fire. Again, the three bugle calls; and yet again. The horses plunged and reared; now and again a soldier, struck by a huge brick, was thrown from his saddle to the ground. Fierce shouts of execration from the strikers, the captain of the cuirassiers unsaddled by half a paving-stone. For the last time, the three bugle calls. And immediately after them the command: “Fire!”