Bland summer breezes, heavy with the scent of long lost French woods and fields and gardens in full flower; swift, soft, moist equinoctial gales, blowing from the far-off orchards of Meudon, or the old market gardens of Suresnes in their autumnal decay, and laden, we do not know why, with strange, mysterious, troubling reminiscence too subtle and elusive to be expressed in any tongue--too sweet for any words! And then the dark December wind that comes down from the north, and brings the short, early twilights and the snow, and drives us home, pleasantly shivering, to the chimney-corner and the hissing logs--_chez nous!_ It is the last night of an old year--_la veille du jour de l'an_. Ankle-deep in snow, we walk to warm, well-lighted "Magna sed Apta," up the moonlit avenue. It is dream snow, and yet we feel it crunch beneath our feet; but if we turn to look, the tracks of our footsteps have disappeared--and we cast no shadows, though the moon is full! M. le Major goes by, and Yverdon the postman, and Pere Francois, with his big sabots, and others, and their footprints remain--and their shadows are strong and sharp! They wish each other the compliments of the season as they meet and pass; they wish us nothing! We give them _la bonne annee_ at the tops of our voices; they do not heed us in the least, though our voices are as resonant as theirs. We are wishing them a "Happy New Year," that dawned for good or evil nearly twenty years ago. Out comes Gogo from the Seraskiers', with Mimsey. He makes a snowball and throws it. It flies straight through me, and splashes itself on Pere Francois's broad back. "Ah, ce polisson de Monsieur Gogo ... attendez un peu!" and Pere Francois returns the compliment--straight through me again, as it seems; and I do not even feel it! Mary and I are as solid to each other as flesh and blood can make us. We cannot even touch these dream people without their melting away into thin air; we can only hear and see them, but that in perfection! There goes that little Andre Corbin, the poulterer's son, running along the slippery top of Madame Pele's garden wall, which is nearly ten feet high. "Good heavens," cries Mary, "stop him! Don't you remember? When he gets to the corner he'll fall down and break both his legs!" I rush and bellow out to him-- "Descends donc, malheureux; tu vas te casser les deux jambes! Saute! saute!" ... I cry, holding out my arms. He does not pay the slightest attention: he reaches the corner, followed low down by Gogo and Mimsey, who are beside themselves with generous envy and admiration. Stimulated by their applause, he becomes more foolhardy than ever, and even tries to be droll, and standing on one leg, sings a little song that begins-- _"Maman m'a donne quat' sous Pour m'en aller a la foire, Non pas pour manger ni boire, Alais pour m'regaler d'joujoux!"_