Paris rises very late indeed on New Year's Day. The night before is given up to family reunions, supper parties and every kind of jollification. So the year begins with a much needed rest. The glitter and racket of the streets gives place to a death-like stillness. Shops are shut and the cafÉs are empty. Paris sleeps. There is an exception to this rule: Certain unfortunate individuals are obliged to rise at day-break, don their best clothes, their uniforms and make their way to the four corners of the town to pay ceremonial calls.

These are the Government officials representing the army, the magistracy, the parliament, the municipality—all must pay their respects to their chiefs. For this hardship they receive little sympathy, as it is generally understood that while they have to work hard on New Year's Day, they do nothing for the rest of the year.

The somnolence of Paris, however, only extends until noon. At that hour life begins again. It is luncheon time.

This New Year's Day differed in no wise from others, and during the afternoon the streets were thronged with people.

A pale sun showed in the gray winter sky and the crowd seemed to be converging toward the Place de la Concorde. Suddenly the blare of a brass band on the Rue Royale brought curious heads to the windows.

A procession headed by a vari-colored banner was marching toward the banks of the Seine. The participants wore a mauve uniform with gold trimmings and upon the banner was inscribed in huge letters:

LA CAPITALE
THE GREAT EVENING PAPER

With some difficulty the musicians reached the Obelisk and at the foot of the monument they formed a circle, while at a distance the crowd awaited developments.

In the front rank two young women were standing.

One of them seemed to be greatly amused at the gratuitous entertainment, the other appeared preoccupied and depressed.

"Come, Marie Pascal, don't be so absent-minded. You look as if you were at a funeral."

The other, a workgirl, tried to smile and gave a deep sigh.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle Rose, to be out of sorts, but I feel very upset."

Two police officers tried to force their way to the musicians and after some difficulty they succeeded in arresting the flute and the trombone players.

This act of brutality occasioned some commotion and the crowd began to murmur.

The employÉs of La Capitale now brought up several handcarts and improvised a sort of platform. Gentlemen in frock coats then appeared on the scene and gathered round it. One or two were recognized and pointed out by the crowd.

"There's M. Dupont, the deputy and director of La Capitale."

A red-faced young man with turned up moustaches was pronounced to be M. de Panteloup, the general manager of the paper.

As a matter of fact, those who read La Capitale had been advised through its columns that an attempt would be made to solve the mystery of the Singing Fountains, which had intrigued Paris for so many weeks. A small army of newsboys offered the paper for sale during the ceremony. Marie Pascal bought a copy and read it eagerly.

"They haven't a word about the affair yet," she cried.

At that moment the powerful voice of M. de Panteloup was heard:

"You are now going to hear an interesting speech by the celebrated archivist and paleographer, M. Anastasius Baringouin, who, better than anyone else, can explain to you the strange enigma of the Singing Fountains."

An immense shout of laughter greeted the orator as he mounted the steps to the stage. He was an old man, very wrinkled and shaky, wearing a high hat much too large for his head. He was vainly trying to settle his glasses upon a very red nose. In a thin, sharp voice, he began:

"The phenomenon of the Singing Fountains is not, as might be supposed, wholly unexpected. Similar occurrences have already been noted and date back to remote antiquity. Formerly a stone statue was erected in the outskirts of the town of Thebes to the memory of Memnon. When the beams of the rising sun struck it, harmonious sounds were heard to issue from it. At first this peculiarity was attributed to some form of trickery, a secret spring or a hidden keyboard. But upon further research, it was demonstrated that the sounds arose from purely physical and natural causes."

The crowd which hitherto had listened in silence to the orator now began to show signs of impatience.

"What the dickens is he gassing about?" shouted some one in the street.

As the savant paid no attention to these signs the band struck up a military march. Finally when order was re-established M. Panteloup himself mounted the platform.

"This fountain, ladies and gentlemen," he began in a powerful voice, "was built in 1836 at a cost of a million and a half francs. In the twenty-four hours its output is 6,716 cubic yards of water. It is composed, as you can see, of a basin of polished stone, decorated by six tritons and nereids, each holding a fish in its mouth from which the water flows out. Thus far there is nothing unusual and it is therefore with justifiable surprise that we discover the fact that at certain moments these fountains actually sing. Are we in the presence of a phenomenon similar to that recalled just now by M. Anastasius Baringouin? Are we, at the beginning of the twentieth century—the century of Science and Precision—victims of hallucination or sorcery? This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we are about to investigate, and we will begin by consulting the celebrated clairvoyant, Madame Gabrielle de Smyrne."

A murmur of approbation greeted the pretty prophetess as she appeared, but at the same moment a police officer followed by fifteen men pushed his way to the foot of the platform and ordered M. Panteloup to cease attracting a crowd. The latter, however, was equal to the occasion. After lifting his hand for silence he shouted the famous cry:

"We are here by the will of the people, we shall not go away except by force."

The crowd cheered, and with the voices mingled the barking of dogs.

"Ladies and gentlemen," continued M. Panteloup, "you hear the wonderful police dogs of Neuilly, Turk and Bellone. They are coming to help us to scent out the mystery."

This was to be the termination of the ceremony, but an unlooked for addition to the program appeared in the person of one of those Parisian "Natural Men" or "Primitive Men."

He was a very old, long-bearded man and wore a white robe. He went by the name of Ouaouaoua, and his portrait had been published in all city papers. A hush came over the crowd and then in the silence a vague metallic murmur was heard above the splash of the water.

This time there was no mistake. The Fountains were singing.

Thousands of witnesses were present and could testify to that fact.

The crowd at once associated the arrival of Ouaouaoua with the music from the Fountains, and he was acclaimed the hero of the occasion.

M. de Panteloup, seized with a happy inspiration, shook hands with Ouaouaoua and pinned on his white robe the gold medal of La Capitale.

Proceedings were, however, summarily brought to a stop at this point. The prefect of the police drove up and his men scattered the crowd in all directions.

Ten minutes after the Place de la Concorde had assumed its usual aspect and the tritons and nereids continued to pour out their 6,716 cubic yards of water every twenty-four hours.