"And from that night he always talks so friendly and familiarly to us, not a bit contemptuously either, but as if he liked us, and was glad to be of service to us." A FAMILY NEW-YEAR'S From 'Monsieur, Madame, and Baby' It is barely seven o'clock. A pale ray of wan light filters through the double curtains, and some one is already at the door. In the next room I hear the stifled laughs and silvery voice of my little child, who trembles with impatience and begs to come. "But father dear," he cries, "it's Baby. It's your own little boy--to wish you 'Happy New Year.'" "Come in, darling; come quick and give me a kiss," I cry. The door opens, and my boy, with shining eyes and his arms in the air, rushes toward the bed. Long curls, escaping from the nightcap which imprisons his blond head, fall over his forehead. His loose night-shirt, embarrassing his little feet, adds to his impatience and makes him trip at every step. He has crossed the room at last, and stretching his hands toward mine, "Baby wishes you a happy New Year," he says earnestly. "Poor darling, with his bare feet! Come, dear! Come and get warm under the covers; come and hide in the quilt." I draw him to me; but at this movement my wife wakes up suddenly.... "How you frightened me! I was dreaming that there was a fire, and these voices in the midst of it! You are indiscreet with your cries!" "_Our_ cries! So you forget, dear mamma, that this is New-Year's day. Baby is waiting for you to wake up, and so am I." I wrap up my little man in the soft quilt, I bury him in the eiderdown, and warm his frozen feet with my hands. "Mother dear, this is New Year," he cries. He draws our two heads together with his arms, and kisses us anywhere at random, with his fresh lips. I feel his dimpled hand wandering about my neck; his little fingers are entangled in my beard. My mustache pricks the end of his nose. He bursts out laughing, and throws his head back. His mother, who has recovered from her fright, draws him into her arms. She pulls the bell. "The year begins well, my dears," she says, "but we need a little light." "Tell me, mamma, do naughty children have presents at New-Year's?" says the young dissembler, with an eye on the mountain of boxes and packages visible in the corner, in spite of the gloom. The curtains are drawn apart, the blinds are opened, there is a flood of daylight, the fire crackles gayly on the hearth, and two large packages, carefully wrapped up, are placed on the bed. One is for my wife; the other for the boy. What is it? What will it be? I have heaped up knots, and tripled the wrappings; and I watch with delight their nervous fingers, lost in the strings.