This year we keep Christmas for the babies.
It is odd how beautiful any woman is with a baby in her arms. Especially if she has only a shawl to wrap around herself and the baby, where it lies in the hollow of her arm. The faded, stained, worn shawl, drawn close about her head, falls in long lines down over her shoulders, and is gathered up in new folds around the nestling baby, the little soft shape of it, the little head, round, against her throat.
Like that each one of the women makes you think of a beautiful, wonderful thing.
Perfectly Well
The patronne was standing by the bed of little 10.
I said, "It does not go well, little 10?"
He said, "Not too well, madame." His poor face was twitching, and his poor hands on the sheet.
The patronne said to me, "He has given us a bad night, that sort of a horror there." She stood with her hands purple on her broad hips and looked at him, and said, "Espèce d'horreur, veux-tu finir de nous en m——"
He laughed and I laughed.