Studios are generally taken for terms ranging from three months to a year, and the terms generally expire in July. The artists who do not change their residence then go into the country, and that means moving their effects.

It is a familiar fact that artists do not generally occupy a high position in the financial world.

Consequently they are a very practical lot, attending to their own domestic duties (including washing when times are hard), and doing their own moving when July comes; but this is not a very elaborate undertaking, the worse of them for that.

One day in July Bishop and I sat in our window overlooking the court, and observed the comedy of a

A STUDENT MOVING

No one thinks student in the throes of moving. The old building at the end of our court was a favorite abiding-place for artists. Evidently, on this day, a young artist or art student was en dÉmÉnagement, for his household goods were being dragged down the stairs and piled in the court preparatory to a journey in a small hand-cart standing by. He was cheerfully assisted by a number of his friends and his devoted companion, a pretty little grisette. There were eight of them in all, and their laughter and shouts indicated the royal fun they were having.

The cart was one of those voitures À bras that are kept for hire at a neighboring location de voitures À bras at six sous an hour. In order to get locomotion out of it you have to hitch yourself in the harness that accompanies it, and pull the vehicle yourself; and that is no end of fun, because your friends are helping and singing all the way.

Into this vehicle they placed a rickety old divan and a very much dilapidated mattress; then came half a sack of coal, a tiny, rusty, round studio stove with interminable yards of battered and soot-filled pipe, a pine table, two rush-bottomed chairs, and a big box filled with clattering dishes, kettles, pots, and pans. On top of this came a thick roll of dusty, faded, threadbare hangings and rugs, and the meagre wardrobes of the artist and the grisette; then a number of hat-boxes, after which Mademoiselle looked with great solicitude. Last of all came bulky portfolios filled with the artist's work, a large number of canvases that were mostly studies of Mademoiselle au naturel, with such accessories as easel, paint-boxes, and the like, and the linen and bedding.

The fat old concierge stood grumbling near by, for the ropes were being tied over the load, and she was anxiously waiting for her dernier adieu, or parting tip, that it is the custom to give upon surrendering the key. But tips are sometimes hard to give, and Bohemian etiquette does not regard them with general favor. After the load had been made snug, the artist approached the concierge, doffed his cap, bowed low, and then in a most impressively ceremonious manner handed her the key, avowed that it broke his heart to leave her, and commended her to God. That was all. There seems to be a special providence attending upon the vocabulary of concierges in their hour of need. The shrill, condemnatory, interminable vocalization of this concierge's wrath indicated specific abilities of exceptional power.

But the artist paid no attention. He hung his coat and "plug" hat on the inverted table-leg, got between the shafts, hitched himself in the harness, and sailed out of the court, his friends swarming around and assisting him to drag the toppling cart away. And this they did with a mighty will, yelling and singing with a vigor that wholly obliterated the concierge's noise. The little grisette closed the procession, bearing in one hand a lamp and in the other a fragile bust. And so the merry party started, possibly for the other end of Paris,—the greater the distance the more the fun. They all knew that when the voiture had been unloaded and all had fallen to and assisted the young couple in straightening out their new home, there would be a jolly celebration in the nearest cafÉ at the moving artist's expense.

So the start was made fairly and smoothly; but the enthusiasm of the crowd was so high and the little vehicle was so top-heavy, that at the end of the passage the comedy seemed about to merge into a tragedy. It was announced to all the court in the shrill voice of the concierge, who exultingly screamed,—"The stove has fallen out! and the coal! The things are falling all over the street! Oh, you villain!"

To the movers themselves it was merely an incident that added to the fun and zest of the enterprise.

My plans carried me to Concarneau, and Bishop's took him to Italy, where I would join him after a while. And a royal time we had in our several ways. The autumn found us fresh and eager for our studies in Paris again, and so we returned to hunt a studio and establish ourselves in new quarters. We had stored our goods with a kind American friend; and as we had neither the desire nor the financial ability to violate the traditions of the Quartier, we greatly scandalized him and his charming family by appearing one day with a crowd of students and a voiture À bras before his house and taking our effects away in the traditional fashion. Of course our friend would have gladly paid for the transport of our belongings in a more respectable fashion; but where would have been the fun in that? I am pleased to say that with true American adaptiveness he joined the singing and yelling crowd, and danced a jig to our playing in our new quarters after a generous brew of punch had done its share in the jollity of the event.

Ah, dear old Paris! wonderful, bewildering Paris! alluring, enchanting Paris! Our student years are now just ended, and Paris is already so crowded with workers who cannot bear to leave it that we must seek our fortune in other and duller parts of the world. But Paris has ineradicably impressed itself upon us. We have lived its life; we have been a part of its throbbing, working, achieving individuality. What we take away will be of imperishable value, the salt and leaven of our hopes and efforts forever.

THE END