My wife gets impatient, smiles, is vexed, kisses me, and asks for scissors. Baby on his side bites his lips, pulls with all his might, and at last asks me to help him. He longs to see through the paper. Desire and expectation are painted on his face. The convulsive movement of his hand in the folds of the quilt rustles the silk, and he makes a sound with his lips as though a savory fruit were approaching them. The last paper is off, finally the cover is lifted, there is an outcry of joy. "My tippet!" "My menagerie!" "Like my muff,--my dear husband!" "With a real shepherd, on wheels, dear papa, _how_ I love you!" They hug me, four arms at once wind round and press me close. I am stirred--a tear comes to my eyes; two come to those of my wife; and Baby, who loses his head, utters a sob as he kisses my hand. How absurd! you will say. I don't know whether it is absurd or not, but it is charming, I promise you. After all, does not sorrow wring tears enough from us to make up for the solitary one which joy may call forth? Life is less happy when one chances it alone; and when the heart is empty, the way seems long. It is so good to feel one's self loved; to hear the regular steps of one's fellow travelers beside one; and to think, "They are there, our three hearts beat together;" and once a year, when the great clock strikes the first of January, to sit down beside the way with hands clasped together and eyes fixed upon the dusty unknown road stretching on to the horizon, and to embrace and say:--"We will always love each other, my dear ones; you depend upon me and I on you. Let us trust and keep straight on." And that is how I explain that we weep a little in looking at a tippet and opening a menagerie. Translated by Jane G. Cooke, for 'A Library of The World's Best Literature.' THEIR LAST EXCURSION From 'Making an Omelette': from Lippincott's Magazine, 1871, copyrighted In this strange, rude interior, how refined and delicate Louise looked, with all her dainty appointments of long undressed kid gloves, jaunty boots, and looped-up petticoat! While I talked to the wood-cutters she shielded her face from the fire with her hands, and kept her eye on the butter beginning to sing in the pan. Suddenly she rose, and taking the pan-handle from the old woman, said, "Let me help you make the omelette, will you?" The good woman let go with a smile, and Louise found herself alone, in the attitude of a fisherman who has just had a nibble. She stood in the full light of the fire, her eyes fixed on the melted butter, her arms tense with effort; she was biting her lips, probably in order to increase her strength. "It's rather hard on madame's little hands," said the old man. "I bet it's the first time you ever made an omelette in a wood-cutter's hut--isn't it, my young lady?" Louise nodded yes, without turning her eyes from the omelette.