Eight o'clock strikes in the village. Pistolet, drumsticks at the ready, starts on his way back.... He can be heard, playing non-stop, coming down from the woods.... Me--I lie down in the grass, overwhelmed with nostalgia. As the drum fades into the distance, All my own familiar Paris passes before my eyes, there amongst the pines.... Ah, Paris!... Paris!... Paris for ever! End of Project Gutenberg's Letters from my Windmill, by Alphonse Daudet