Little Poems in Prose

come to the city in order to gambol for an hour around a beautiful bitch, a little careless about her toilet, but proud and grateful. And they are all very exact, without pocket- books, notes, or portfolios. Do you know lazy Belgium, and have you admired—as I have—all those vigorous dogs that attach themselves to the butcher’s, baker’s, or dairyman’s cart, and show by their triumphant barks the proud pleasure which they experience in rivalling horses? Here are two who belong to a yet more civi- lized order; let me introduce you to the acro- bat’s room in his absence. A bed of painted wood without curtains; bed-clothes dragging on the floor and full of bugs; two straw chairs, a cast-iron stove, one or two damaged instru- ments of music. Oh, what depressing furniture! But look, I beg you, at these two intelligent personages, clothed in robes at once sumptu- ous and frayed, their hair dressed like trouba- dours or soldiers, who inspect with a wizard- keen attention the nameless dish which sim- mers on the lighted stove, in the centre of which a long spoon stands up planted like one of those aerial masts which announce that the masonry of a building is complete! Is it not that such zealous comedians should not start on their journey without having glad-