noon
Then waking when the first signs of morning crispness were beginning to show themselves , I saw that Ernest was already devouring every object we passed with quick sympathetic curiousness . There was not a peasant in a blouse driving his cart betimes along the road to market , not a signalman 's wife in her husband 's hat and coat waving a green flag , not a shepherd taking out his sheep to the dewy pastures , not a bank of opening cowslips as we passed through the railway cuttings , but he was drinking it all in with an enjoyment too deep for words . The name of the engine that drew us was Mozart , and Ernest liked this too . We reached Paris by six , and had just time to get across the town and take a morning express train to Marseilles , but before noon my young friend was tired out and had resigned himself to a series of sleeps which were seldom intermitted for more than an hour or so together . He fought against this for a time , but in the end consoled himself by saying it was so nice to have so much pleasure that he could afford to throw a lot of it away . Having found a theory on which to justify himself , he slept in peace . At Marseilles we rested , and there the excitement of the change proved , as I had half feared it would , too much for my godson 's still enfeebled state .