Little Poems in Prose

XIV THE OLD MOUNTEBANK EVERYWHERE spread and moved and frol- icked the holiday folk. It was one of those fes- tivals on which, since long, mountebanks, trick performers, menagerie proprietors, and ped- lars count to make up for the slack seasons of the year. On such days it seems to me that the peo- ple forgets everything, both sorrow and toil; it becomes as children are; for the children it is a holiday, for the frown-ups it is an armistice concluded with the maleficent powers of life, a respite in the universal strife and struggle. The man of the world himself, and the man engaged in mental labour, escape with diffi- culty from the influence of this popular jubilee. They absorb, without wishing it, their part of this happy-go-lucky atmosphere. For myself, like a true Parisian, I never miss passing in re- view all the booths which flaunt upon these solemn occasions. They were in truth trying to outdo each other in hubbub; they chattered, bellowed,