peror and his friend the Sultan, and they went by
on a swinging trot and disappeared.

I will not describe the Bois de Boulogne. I can-
not do it. It is simply a beautiful, cultivated, end-
less, wonderful wilderness. It is an enchanting
place. It is in Paris, now, one may say, but a
crumbling old cross in one portion of it reminds one
that it was not always so. The cross marks the spot
where a celebrated troubadour was waylaid and mur-
dered in the fourteenth century. It was in this park
that that fellow with an unpronounceable name made
the attempt upon the Russian Czar's life last spring
with a pistol. The bullet struck a tree. Ferguson
showed us the place. Now in America that interest-
ing tree would be chopped down or forgotten within
the next five years, but it will be treasured here.
The guides will point it out to visitors for the next
eight hundred years, and when it decays and falls
down they will put up another there and go on with
the same old story just the same.

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