Monsieur, Madame, and Bebe -- V

d already some one is tapping at the door. I can hear in the next room from the stifled laught

is Baby, it is Baby

rling; come qui

, escaping from the nightcap covering his head, float on his forehead. His long, loose night-shi

e room, and, holding ou

ppy New Year," he say

e feet! Come, darling, and warm

at this moment my wife, wh

exclaims, feeling fo

we two,

e house was on fire, and that I heard your voice amid the ra

Year's Day, the day of smiles and kisses? Baby wa

ow up in the eiderdown quilt an

ogether, puts forward his own and kisses us at haphazard with his moist lips. I fe

ose, and he bursts into a fit of joyo

from her fright, takes him i

, dear," she says, "but we

don't have any new toys o

ile of parcels and packages heaped up in on

room; the fire crackles merrily on the hearth, and two large parcels, carefull

s and tripled the wrappings, and I gleefully follow

miles, pouts, kisses me,

o penetrate the wrappers. All the signs of desire and expectation are stamped on his face. His hand, hidden under the c

alls aside. The lid is lif

r tip

ah's

muff, dear, k

heels, dear papa.

Emotion gets the better of me, and a tear steals into my eye. There are tw

s ab

w; but delightful,

ough tears for us to forgive joy the sol

selves in it singlehanded, and when the

nt once a year, when the great clock strikes the first of January, to sit down beside the path, with hands locked together, and eyes fixed on the unknown dusty road losing itself in

weep a little while examining a new

e stepped on my son's wild beasts in turning round, and I have the prospect

of truffles perfumes the air, every one is smiling, and through the glass I see, startling sight

affes round his plate, and his mother, under

e carriage, dear, fo

l take up such a deal of room. It

r au

t Ursula," said Baby; "she pr

king-horse, Louise's muff, your father's slippers, Ernestine's quilt, the bonb

sn't the giraf

don't kn

r do I,

unts the steps as she pulls herself up by the hand-rail, and I carry the famous c

icy little drawing-room. Four square armchairs, hidden beneath yellow covers, stand vacant behind f

ows a nymph with a lyre, standing beside a waterfa

ave come to wish yo

ss our ho

I am sensible of this step on your part; it proves to me that you have

affection we feel for you, and which of itself

ar, "But, papa, I tel

bonbons on a

and, if I were not aware of your indifference as to the state of my health, I should see in your offering

k you

serves my wife, "by embroidering for you

gn. You might have made a better choice, knowing that I like things much more simple. It is charming, however, although this red next to the green here sets one's teet

how like you it is! Do

by

photograph does not in any way resemble me, my eyes are much brighter.

and kiss y

we shall g

very rude

tting impatient, you have other . . . errands to fulfil; I will not keep you. B

subtract one duty call

ue St. Louis

t Ursula needl

ty calls, they are no more agr

miles at old Jeannette, who, at the sound of the wheels, has rushed to the door. "Here they are," she exclaims, and she carries

Come to my arms, my dears; this is the day on which one kisses in good earnest. Jean, hold my lantern a minute." And as my old father clasps me to his breast, h

d you are frozen; go into the drawing-room, t

oxes are opened, bonbons are showered forth, parcels are undone, mirth becomes deafening, and good humor tumultuous. Baby standing ami

my father, swinging his lantern w

ses countenance. He casts down his eyes, blushes and takes refuge in the arms of his mother, who,

ontrite voice, his head bent down on his breast, he repeats with a de

and a smile on our lips, foll

"Ah! I can follow it," he says. "It is the fox and the grapes." And as there is a murmur of "Hus

is fable with a burst of laughter. Joy is communicative,

tern. I have forgotten all about the cellar. Jean, take

to the tureen. Give me the family dinner table at which those we love are seated, at which we may risk r