[Footnote A: Notre Dame de Paris, par Victor Hugo.]
That mystic word [Greek: Anagkae]! I wrote it on the flyleaf of all my books. I carved it on my desk. I intoned it in the echoing cloisters! I vowed I would make a pilgrimage to Notre Dame some day, that I might hunt for it in every hole and corner there, and read it with my own eyes, and feel it with my own forefinger.
And then that terrible prophetic song the old hag sings in the dark slum—how it haunted me, too! I could not shake it out of my troubled consciousness for months:
Grouille, grève, grève, grouille,
File, File, ma quenouille:
_File sa corde au bourreau
Qui siffle dans le préau.
[Greek:”’Anagkae!’Anagkae!’Anagkae_!”]
Yes; it was worth while having been a little French boy just for a few years.
I especially found it s
