In France the gates⁠—strong iron ones⁠—at grade crossings are kept closed except when someone wants to cross the tracks. The someone makes known his desire by tooting his horn or shouting, and the gatekeeper⁠—usually an old lady with the pipe-smoking habit⁠—comes out of her shack and opens the gates, expending anywhere from ten minutes to half an hour on the task. The salary attached to the position is the same as that of a French private: ten centimes a day, which is two cents in regular money. I presume the gatekeepers have a hot time in the old town on pay night.

As for the sheep, when you come up behind them you might as well resign yourself to staying behind them till they reach the village for which they are headed. They won’t get out of the way of their own accord, and neither the dog nor the aged shepherd will make any effort to sidetrack them.