"Poor darling, with his bare feet! Come, dear! Come and get warm under the covers; come and hide in the quilt."
I draw him to me; but at this movement my wife wakes up suddenly.... "How you frightened me! I was dreaming that there was a fire, and these voices in the midst of it! You are indiscreet with your cries!"
"Our cries! So you forget, dear mamma, that this is New-Year's day. Baby is waiting for you to wake up, and so am I."
I wrap up my little man in the soft quilt, I bury him in the eiderdown, and warm his frozen feet with my hands.
"Mother dear, this is New Year," he cries. He draws our two heads together with his arms, and kisses us anywhere at random, with his fresh lips. I feel his dimpled hand wandering about my neck; his little fingers are entangled in my beard. My mustache pricks the end of his nose. He bursts out laughing, and throws his head back.
His mother, who has recovered from her fright, draws him into her arms. She pulls the bell.
"The year begins well, my dears," she says, "but we need a little light."
"Tell me, mamma, do naughty children have presents at New-Year's?" says the young dissembler, with an eye on the mountain of boxes and packages visible in the corner, in spite of the gloom.
The curtains are drawn apart, the blinds are opened, there is a flood of daylight, the fire crackles gayly on the hearth, and two large packages, carefully wrapped up, are placed on the bed. One is for my wife; the other for the boy.
What is it? What will it be? I have heaped up knots, and tripled the wrappings; and I watch with delight their nervous fingers, lost in the strings.