The Catholic World, Vol. 15, Nos. 85-90, April 1872-September 1872 / A Monthly Magazine

trellis of hop-leaves, when the big man in the blouse ca

at red ear; he affected to bellow with anguish, his roaring voice topped by the

aking off his hat and bowing politely to John's wife, at

Messieurs are En

ning our nationality, "and very pleasant in t

ervice. Salute then the society, Auguste. You must know he has the pretension to be a little delicate, this young man. An invalid, if you please; consequently his aunt spoils hi

ere crystal, he pretended to let his son

eces probably; we shall have the trouble of mendin

it ecstatically. His father obeyed, and then sent him off running to cal

e grave, and wistful. "His spirits are so high, see you? He is {110} too intelligent, too intellectual-he has a little exhaus

joined us. Our new acqu

sieurs are English. They are good enough to tak

le monarch amused himself by ornamenting the parental straw-hat with a huge fla

y at those playfellows as they went off together, sat down on

is so strong-so strong! But the little one resembles in every manner his mother. His poor father adores him, as you see. Poor Jean! he so tenderly loved his wife, who died in her first youth. ... She had but eighteen years-she had six years less than I. In dying she begged me to be to her infant a mother, and to her poor Jean a sister. Jean is a good brother, bon et brave homme. And for the little one, he is truly a c

breakfast. He was seated between his papa and aunt, and was being adored b

sh family soon fraternized with that of Jean Baudin, the Flemish

lanes, and woods, and hamlets which diversify the flats on that side of Brussels, accompanying Jean Baudin and his paint-box. We sat under a tree, or on a stone fence, smoking pipes of patience, while Jean made studies for those wonderful, elaborate tiny pictures, the work of his big hands,

ifed creature, knitting as she kicked the grand-babe's clumsy cradle {111} with her clumsy sabot;-a ray through the leafy little window-hole found the crone's white hair, and the infant cheek. Honest Jean only painted what he saw with his eyes. He could copy such simple poetry as this, and feel it too, though he could indite no origi

en a-dancing again on the grass-plot before us; and I must here confess that they saltated to a mandolin touched by this hand. I had studi

ttle man did it with much spirit, and a truculent aspect, stamping fiercely at particular moments of the strain. I can only remember the effective opening of this entertainment. Thus it began-"Les Belges" (at this point the small pe

ean Baudin painted her, sitting placid, a little open-mouthed, heavy-lidded, over-fed, with a lapful of cherries. We all made much of her and submitted to her.

excite in his mind a mixture of awe and curiosity, wonder and horror. For instance, he had heard-he did not altogether believe it (deprecatingly)-that not only were the shops of London closed

one must believe. But then what do they? No busi

ay holy," asserts Mrs. Freshe, in perfect good faith, and

ste, Madame? Tiens, tiens! And this is that which is the Protest

tell his wife; with no increase

r, patronized us, and gravely did us a hundr

e porter, trundling up, with shrill cries, heavy luggage-trucks piled with gravel, gooseberry-skins, tin soldiers, and bits of cork. Marie was a rich and haughty lady about to proceed by the next convoi, and paying an immense sum, in daisies, for her ticket, to Auguste, become a clerk. A disputed point in these transactions appeared to be the possession of the bell; the frequent ringing of which was indeed a principal feature of the performance. Auguste contended hotly, but with considerable show of r

demure and innocent complacency display this fabric, in its progress, to John's wife (who does not herself, I fancy, excel in satin-stitch), and relate how short a time (four months, I think) she had taken to bring it so near completion. Mrs. Freshe regarded this work of art with feminine eyes of admiration, and slyly remarked that it was really beautiful enough "même pour un trousseau." At the same time she with difficulty concealed her disapproval of

ght, with a knapsack at his back, came up the gravel-walk: a handsome brown-faced fellow

ught sight of each oth

dropped her petticoat-work; she ran forward, throwing out her hands; she stopped short-

Enfin!" cried he in

neck, her two little hands on his

ced shamefacedly at us. Then she came quickly up-came to John's wife, slid an

on we knew, lo! a bashful, rosy, smiling girl, tripping, skipping, beside herself with happy love! And her little collar was all rumpled, and so were her smooth brown braids. Monsieur Jules

yed at these extraordinary proceedings. Mademoiselle

otte," said he, softly, lifting and kissi

e court-yard, by which the painter sat at his easel almost all day. "Ohé! M

issez-moi, done

his monsieur whom they call?" la

attered off, with that gleeful shriek of

hat. Having worked all day for the little one, he goes now to make himself a child to play with him. He calls that to rest himself. An

o us the happy couple went