PARIS RAGPICKERS' FAIR.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXIX, Issue 12259, 9 June 1914, Page 2

PARIS RAGPICKERS' FAIR.

Talis,' April 23. To the seasoned traveller it isn't the highways that attract, but the byways, the quiet backwaters with a_ historical interest, the downtown districts where curious industries are carried on.

'Many such will be discovered if yon should essay how to learn to "boffin." It is easy when the Ham Fair is on, the annual event that ■" turns all Parisians into temporary Boffins. Imagine a long anile of boulevard on which the dust bins of Paris have been neatly and systematically laid out, all the way from the Place de la Republique to the Bastille. .Imagine a. display of broken, dilapidated furniture—chairs and cupboards and chests that have been, sold and bought and sold again and trundled backward and forward in carts and wheelbarrows from one domicile to another, according to the caprice of fortune of a nomadic owner.

Imagine the false hair discarded by scores of •coquettes after hard service, the feathers worn beyond all power of preening, the combs and bits of lace. To these add the wrecks of an army of motor cycles, the contents of thousands of tool boxes, flanked by remnants of Sevres services and Dresden ornaments, Hindu deities, Persian rugs, parts of aeroplanes, and you have some idea of the Ham Fair.

The, American colony has mustered in its strength. A girl from Arizona is looking for presents with which to startle the Western world, and finding them.

"I've just found Marat's bath," she tells us, her face aglow. "Don't tell me it is impossible. I say it is the authentic article in which that man was killed. Dirty enough, and cheap, too. I've bought it, and I mean to- take it over with me. It'll tickle pa to death. I guess there isn't any one in Arizona who'll contradict me when I show that as Marat's bath." She was dragging the big slipper hath behind her. You . may scoff both at the rags and ragpickers, but you will probably "boffin" yourself before many minutes have.gone by.

i "Just open out that nig, merchant, will you ?" This too has been under fire apparently. It is; literally riddled with small ! iioles 3 scattered impartially through its length arid breadth. "What will you?" says the vendor philosophically "These things are bought by the rich, pas? and they go away from home for weeks and months together, shutting up the house so as to save expense.in wages, and naturally the moth do what they like there. What can you do about it? My faith, were it not so we could not sell them nor you buy them, is it not?" "What do you want for the rug?" The merchant came close to the speaker and whispered a word in his ear: "Fifteen francs (12s 6d)." "You're joking."

"Ah! look you, it needs mending. I know it well, but the quality and the design are extra —and it is made by hand." "They always are! What are you singing me there?" "I know- well," said the philosopher, hastening to cover up his blunder, "but the stitch is a very fine one, as monsieur can see for himself. And strong —see here, too, this Moroccan carpet, whose pile is completely worn away: look at the foundation, howevei —not a sign of wear in it, and a curious little design and a- pleasant bit of color too, even so; and regard a- little how durable it is. Well, this too monsieur can have for 15 francs. He can use it wrong side up and it will last his life." When the merchant and buyer had agreed on the lump sum of 22 francs (about 17s) for the two the business was closed and the bundle dragged awnv to join Marat's bath. We left in "three taxis. Marat's bath and a big iron gate, the former filled with bits of silk and lace, a snuffbox and early Victorian parasol of ivory and velvet, and the latter leaning in rusty- grandeur top heavily over , the hood; carpets, chests, mirrors and pic-

ture frames jumbleu mi with prints, candlesticks and Japanese lanterns were crowded into the others. Weary, but iiroud and happy, we made our way homeward, envied and enviable, with our bargains collected from the •huge. rubbish heaj of the Boulevard .Richard Lenoir