ho, at the sound of the wheels, has rushed to the door.
"Here they are," she exclaims, and she carries off Baby to the kitchen,
where my mother, with her sleeves turned up, is giving the finishing
touch to her traditional plum cake.

My father, on his way to the cellar, lantern in hand, and escorted
by his old servant, Jean, who is carrying the basket, halts. "Why,
children, how late you are! 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, his hand seeks out mine
and grasps it, with a long clasp. Baby, who glides in between our legs,
pulls our coat-tails and holds up his little mouth for a kiss too.

"But I am keeping you here in the anteroom and you are frozen; go into
the drawing-room, there are a good fire and good friends there."

They have heard us, the door opens, and a number of arms are held out
to us. Amid handshakings, embracings, good wishes, and kisses, boxes are
opened, bonbons are showered forth, parcels are undone, mirth becomes
deafening, and good humor tumultuous. Baby standing amid his presents
resembles a drunken man surrounded by a treasure, and from time to time
gives a cry of joy on discovering some fresh toy.

"The little man's fable," exclaims my father, swinging his lantern which
he has taken again from Jean.

A deep silence ensues, and the poor child, whose debut in the
elocutionary art it is, suddenly loses countenance. He casts down his
eyes, blushes and takes refuge in the arms of his mother, who, stooping
down, whispers, "Come, darling, 'A lamb was quenching'; you know the
wolf and the lamb."

"Yes, mamma, I know the little lamb that wanted to drink." And in a
contrite voice, his head bent down on his breast, he repeats with a deep
sigh, "'A little lamb was quenching his thirst in a clear stream."'

We all, with ears on the alert and a smile on our lips, follow his
delightful little jargon.

Uncle Bertrand, who is rather deaf, has made an ear trumpet of his hand
and drawn his chair up. "Ah! I can follow it," he says. "It is the
fox and the grapes." And as there is a murmur of "Hush," at this
interruption, he adds: "Yes, yes, he recites with intelligence, great
intelligence."

Success restores confidence to my darling, who finishes his fable with a
burst of laughter. Joy is communicative, and we take our places at table
amid the liveliest mirth.

"By the way," says my fa