The Coolidge examiner., 1937-04-15

| Prepared by National Geographic Society,
Washington, D. C.-WNU Service.
PRING flows across Paris in
- waves of joy. Tender leaves
X bring shade to the boulevards.
Horse chestnut candelabra
tighten the masses of new green.
In the Jardin des Plantes, the Lux
embourg Gardens, and, the BolS,
hoops, skipping ropes, and all sizes
and colors of balls give outlet for
new surge of energy and delight.
At Pre- Catelan and Armenonville
tables and chairs, reappearing after
their annual Information, invite con-
VITALITY. Along the boulevards un-
scientific but heart-Warming bra
ziers, around which cafe patrons
clustered all winter, give way to
green tubs of pink hydrangeas.
Overcoats are laid aside. Windows
open wide in unconditional surren-
der to spring.
AlonJ the Seine the workmen's S
clubs shine up their houseboats, and
ragged laborers, stripping for sun
bath, become as we'll dressed as
any man.
Poor devils along the quays lie
for hour on the warm stone stair
ways, savoring the blessed novelty
of being neither cold nor wet. In the
industrial suburbs, mild weather
lessons the misery.
In the Tuileries Gardens, human
beings suddenly outnumber the stat
ues, and at the Palais Royal, where
John Howard Payne wrote Home,
Sweet Home" little boys welcome
staunch sailboats after adventurous
voyages amid the Waterspouts of
the fountain.
The Gingerbread Fair, with its
roaring lions, skin-deep beauty
shows, merry-go-rounds, wheels of
fortune, and photograph shops,
starts its annual round under many
aliases.
AS the Fair of the Throne" on
the Place de la Nation, this street
carnival has its biggest success, for
there it is among its own, the COM
mon folk who get thrill out of hav-
ing gingerbread pigs baptized"
with the names of their proud
youngsters.
Under other titles, the Ginger
bread Fair later spreads its tents
before the Invalides and paves the
Avenue de Neuilly with pleasure
from the Porte Maillot to the Seine.
Along the outer boulevards it COM
petes for custom with cinema and
cabaret.
How long it can last, none Of the
sellers of nougat or spinners Of for
tune wheels can say. People don't
seem to buy live turtles any more" I"
one veteran sighs.
Plenty of Zoos There.
There are ZOOS from one end of
Paris to the other. Giraffes brush
at the clouds with inadequate ears;
a fat sea elephant tips its head
back like man gargling, in order
to eat fish from the hands of a
keeper standing on its back; mon
keys chase fleas, lions obey train
er, and elephants, doing elephantine
tricks, collect tips in their trunks.
AS for donkeys, ponies, anC goats,
there are squads of them, each
ready to go into action any time a
pair of chubby legs straddles its
back or a dainty miss of four takes
the reins.
Paris offers its children countless
simple delights. A youngster can
ride a camel, drive a llama or an
ostrich, lance rings from a merry
go-round, whirl to music inside a
miniature plane, dig in the sand,
sail a yacht, or forget the world
at a puppet show.
Then there is the Zoo of the Little
Ones. Any city might have one. A
dozen lambs, two dozen pigs, six
donkeys, twenty kids, rabbits, duck
lings, guinea pigs, and monkeys to
suit the taste-this is the recipe.
Paris adds a baby camel and its
mother. But that is mere swank.
The magic lies in those mutually
timorous contacts through which
confidence and companionship are
established between a child and a
pet. Tiny children feed woolly
lambs from bottles and squeal with
delight when the little beggars suck
the nipple off and spill milk down
mothers black dress. There is
something enormously appealing
about being allowed to feed another
persons livestock when you are
young in Paris in the spring.
Every afternoon, governesses and
their well-dressed charges invade
the generous expanses of forest,
park, and square. On Thursdays,
when the schools are out, and Sun
days, when everyone is, Paris goes
sylvan to an unbelievable degree.
Lying on the grass is major sport.
Within smart race tracks at Long
champ or Auteuil, nature lovers
stretch out under the sun, some