No six-inch rules hedge the shade of the trees and limit the glory of the grass.

The _ouvrier_ can bring his brood and his basket and have his picnic where he pleases.

The pastry cook and his chere amie, the coiffeur and his grisette can spoon by the lake-side as long as the moonlight lasts, and longer if they list, with never a gendarme to say them nay, or a rude voice out of the depths hoarsely to declaim, "allez!" The Bois de Boulogne is literally and absolutely a playground, the playground of the people, and this last Sunday of mine, not fewer than half a million of Parisians were making it their own.
Half of these encircled the Longchamps racecourse.

The other half were shared by the boats upon the lagoons and the bosky dells under the summer sky and the cafes and the restaurants with which the Bois abounds.

Our party, having exhausted the humors of the drive, repaired to Pre Catalan.