His mother, who, however, laughed too, would say the next minute, “Come, baby, come, my little angel, you will get cold... But leave off... Will you have done, you little demon?” She wanted to scold, but she could not be serious at the sight of his fair-haired head, and flushed, smiling, happy face, thrown back on my knee. She would look at me, and say: “He is unbearable. Good gracious! what a child.” But I understood that this meant: “Look how handsome, sturdy and healthy he is, our baby, our little man, our son.” And indeed he was adorable; at least I thought so. I had the wisdom--I can say it now that my hair is white--not to let one of those happy moments pass without amply profiting by it, and really I did well. Pity the fathers who do not know how to be papas as often as possible, who do not know how to roll on the carpet, play at being a horse, pretend to be the great wolf, undress their baby, imitate the barking of the dog, and the roar of the lion, bite whole mouthfuls without hurting, and hide behind armchairs so as to let themselves be seen. Pity sincerely these unfortunates. It is not only pleasant child’s play that they neglect, but true pleasure, delightful enjoyment, the scraps of that happiness which is greatly calumniated and accused of not existing because we expect it to fall from heaven in a solid mass when it lies at our feet in fine powder. Let us pick up the fragments, and not grumble too much; every day brings us with its bread its ration of happiness. Let us walk slowly and look down on the ground, searching around us and seeking in the corners; it is there that Providence has its hiding-places. I have always laughed at those people who rush through life at full speed, with dilated nostrils, uneasy eyes, and glance rivetted on the horizon. It seems as though the present scorched their feet, and when you say to them, “Stop a moment, alight, take a glass of this good old wine, let us chat a little, laugh a little, kiss your child.” “Impossible,” they reply; “I am expected over there. There I shall converse, there I shall drink delicious wine, there I shall give expansion to paternal love, there I shall be happy!” And when they do get “there,” breathless and tired out, and claim the price of their fatigue, the present, laughing behind its spectacles, says, “Monsieur, the bank is closed.” The future promises, it is the present that pays, and one should have a good understanding with the one that keeps the keys of the safe. Why fancy that you are a dupe of Providence? Do you think that Providence has the time to serve up to each of you perfect happiness, already dressed on a golden plate, and to play music during your repast into the bargain? Yet that is what a great many people would like. We must be reasonable, tuck up our sleeves and look after our cooking ourselves, and not insist that heaven should put itself out of the way to skim our soup.