I have visited Paris many, many times in the years gone by and thought I knew the city thoroughly. So I did and do, the immediate city within the walls, and many of the points without them, but that is far from the whole of Paris. So much lies around it which it is bother-some to reach and that I never saw or should have seen but for an auto, that I feel deeply grateful to the puffing, conceited thing, which, so to speak, swallows one up and rushes off in any and all directions, and at a moment's notice; so that day after day glides by in skimming the country round about of its rich cream of interest. To-day we are off for Chartres,--a short run of fifty-five miles each way. I had asked an acquaintance to go along and warned him to bring his heavy wraps. He appeared in low shoes, silk socks, a light spring overcoat and wearing a delicate orchid in his buttonhole. Before we reach Chartres I have to wrap him up in about everything the car holds save the gasoline, and I think he is inclined to swallow some of that and to touch a match to it so hard are the shivers. However, a bottle of whiskey sets him on his legs again, but I fancy the next time he is warned he will take heed. The day's ride is beautiful and proves one of utmost interest, one in which the pages of France's history are unrolled all too rapidly before us. The air is fresh and life-giving as we race past the Arch, and so on into the shade of the Bois, which this morning is so entrancing that we speed through many of its avenues before starting onward for the real ride of the day. The machine skims over these level roadways soundlessly, and so smoothly that one may write if one were so disposed on such a morning. Other autos rush past us and we hold on to our caps and almost to our hair; thousands of bicycles flash along the by-paths; Paris is out to enjoy itself as only Paris knows how to do. Yonder is Bagatelle, to my thinking the most exquisite portion of the Bois, and one so little known, to Americans at least. Enter its gateways, and there, in the very centre of this French wood, you find a great park intensely English in its characteristics. One might imagine one's self in some English estate in the heart of that country, for, save for the villa, there is nothing to remind one that this is France. The villa itself is not of a size to greatly mar the picture, and as it is empty and closed you will spend your time in the winding walks and under the shade of the trees. There are two statements as to the building of yonder villa, one, that it was done by the Comte d'Artois on a wager with Marie Antoinette that he would build a château in a month's time. This he accomplished. The other statement makes the wager by that same nobleman with the Prince of Wales and the time sixty days. Whichever is true, the villa was built and for many years with its park belonged to and was the home of Sir Richard Wallace, who housed his superb collection, now in London, within its walls.