"The year is beginning well, dear," she says, "but we must have a little daylight."
"Mamma, naughty children don't have any new toys on New Year's Day, do they?"
And as he says this the sly fellow eyes a pile of parcels and packages heaped up in one corner, visible despite the semidarkness.
Soon the curtains are drawn aside, and the shutters opened; daylight floods the room; the fire crackles merrily on the hearth, and two large parcels, carefully tied up, are placed on the bed. One is for my wife, and the other for my boy.
"What is it? What is it?" I have multiplied the knots and tripled the wrappings, and I gleefully follow their impatient fingers entangled among the strings.
My wife gets impatient, smiles, pouts, kisses me, and asks for the scissors.
Baby on his side tugs with all his might, biting his lips as he does so, and ends by asking my help. His look strives to penetrate the wrappers. All the signs of desire and expectation are stamped on his face. His hand, hidden under the coverlet, causes the silk to rustle with his convulsive movements, and his lips quiver as at the approach of some dainty.
At length the last paper falls aside. The lid is lifted, and joy breaks forth.
"A fur tippet!"
"A Noah's ark!"