it is the _pot-au-feu_, but not every day zis, for
Mere Jeanne is poor; but always somesing, fish to fry, or pancakes, or
apples. But zis time, Mere Jeanne make me a _fete_; she say, 'It is the
_Fete Marie_!'

"She make the fire bright, bright; and she bring big chestnuts, two
handfuls of zem, and set zem on ze shovel to roast; and zen she put ze
greedle, and she mixed ze batter in a great bowl--it is yellow, that
bowl, and the spoon, it is horn. She show it to me, she say, 'Wat leetle
child was eat wiz this spoon, Marie? hein?' and I--I kiss the spoon; I
say, '_'Tite Marie, Mere Jeanne! 'Tite Marie qui t'aime!_'[2] It is the
first words I could say of my life, _mes enfants_!

"Zen she laugh, and nod her head, and she stir, stir, stir till ze
bobbles come--"

"The way they do when you make griddle-cakes, Mere-Marie?"

"Ah! no! much, much, thousand time better, Mere Jeanne make zem! She
toss them--so! wiz ze spoon, and they shine like gold, and when they
come down--hop!--they say 'Sssssssssss!' that they like to fry for Mere
Jeanne, and for Marie, and _p'tit Jacques_, and good Petie. Then I bring
out the black table, and I know where the bread live, and the cheese,
and while the cakes fry, I go to milk the cow--ah! the pearl of cows,
children, white like her own cream, fat like a boiled chestnut, good
like an angel! She has not forgotten Marie, she rub her nose in my
heart, she sing to me. I take her wiz both my arms, I weep--ah! but it
is joy, _p'tit Jacques_! it is wiz joy I weep! Zen, again in ze house,
and round ze table, we all sit, and we eat, and eat, that we can eat no
more. And Mere Jeanne say:

"'Tell me of thy home, Marie!' and I tell all, all; of thy father
Jacques, how he good, and great, and handsome as Saint Michael; and how
my house is fine, fine, and how Abiroc is good. And Mere Jeanne, she
make the great eyes; she cry, 'Ah! the good fortune! Ah, Marie, that
thou art fortunate, that thou art happy!'

"Then she tell thee, _p'tit Jacques_, how I was little, little, in a
blue frock, wiz the cap tie under my chin; and how I dance and sing in
the street, and how _Madame la Comtesse_ see me, and take me to ze
castle, and make teach me the violin, and give me Madame for my friend.
I have told thee all, many, many times. Then she tell, Mere Jeanne,--oh!
she is good, good, and all ze time she fill thee wiz chestnuts that I
cry out lest thou die,--she tell how one day she come home from market,
and I am go