The patchwork blouse cut a caper, a look of lively joy shot from the man’s eyes, where a tear was gathering, and the wagon, from its bursting cover, gave utterance to a sob.

“Why sell them,” I asked, touched in spite of myself, “if you are so attached to them?  Is the money indispensable to you?  I might possibly make an advance.”

“Ah, you are a real Christian—­you are now,” said the honest Joliet, polishing his eyeball with his coat-cuff.  “The good woman holds by them, it is true.  Holy Virgin! it’s she that has raised them, and I may say brooded over them in the coop.  The eggs were for our salad when we had nothing better than nettles and sorrel.  But, day in and night in, we have no other lodging than our wagon, and the wife is promising to give me a dolly; and if we don’t take out the cage, where will the cradle go, sir?”

[Illustration:  The present.]

The calculation appeared reasonable.  I received the birds, and they were the heroes, in their boudoir under the piano, of that night’s conversazione.

[Illustration:  The convalescent.]

[Illustration:  The divided burden.]

How hard it is for a life cast upon the crowded shores of the Old World to regain the place once lost is shown by the history of my honest friend Joliet.  Born in 1812, of an excellent family living twenty miles from Versailles, the little fellow lost his mother before he could talk to her.  When he was ten years old, his father, who had failed after some land speculations, and had turned all he had into money, tossed him up to the lintel of the doorway, kissed him, put a twenty-franc gold-piece into his little pocket, and went away to seek his fortune in Louisiana:  the son never heard of him more.  The lady-president of a charitable society, Mademoiselle Marx, took pity on the abandoned child:  she fed him on bones and occasionally beat him.  She was an ingenious and inventive creature, and made her own cat-o’-nine-tails:  an inventor is for ever demonstrating the merits of his implement.  Soon, discovering that he was thankless and unteachable, she made him enter, as youngest clerk, the law-office of her admirer and attorney, Constabule.  This gentleman, not finding enough engrossing work to keep the lad out of mischief, allowed him to sweep his rooms and blacken his boots.  Little Joliet, after giving a volatile air to a great many of his employer’s briefs by making paper chickens of them, showed his imperfect sense of the favors done him by absconding.  In fact, proud and independent, he was brooding over boyish schemes of an honorable living and a hasty fortune.  He soon found that every profession required an apprenticeship, and that an apprenticeship could only be bought for money.  He was obliged, then, to seek his grand fortune through somewhat obscure avenues.  If I were to follow my poor Joliet through all his transmigrations and