So much for the nights; with the first twitter of the birds my babies begin to stir.  Through the mists of dispersing sleep, their chatter blends with the warblings that fill the morning air, or with the swallows’ noisy debates—­little cries of joy or woe, which make their way to my heart rather than my ears.  While Nais struggles to get at me, making the passage from her cradle to my bed on all fours or with staggering steps, Armand climbs up with the agility of a monkey, and has his arms round me.  Then the merry couple turn my bed into a playground, where mother lies at their mercy.  The baby-girl pulls my hair, and would take to sucking again, while Armand stands guard over my breast, as though defending his property.  Their funny ways, their peals of laughter, are too much for me, and put sleep fairly to flight.

Then we play the ogress game; mother ogress eats up the white, soft flesh with hugs, and rains kisses on those rosy shoulders and eyes brimming over with saucy mischief; we have little jealous tiffs too, so pretty to see.  It has happened to me, dear, to take up my stockings at eight o’clock and be still bare-footed at nine!

Then comes the getting up.  The operation of dressing begins.  I slip on my dressing-gown, turn up my sleeves, and don the mackintosh apron; with Mary’s assistance, I wash and scrub my two little blossoms.  I am sole arbiter of the temperature of the bath, for a good half of children’s crying and whimpering comes from mistakes here.  The moment has arrived for paper fleets and glass ducks, since the only way to get children thoroughly washed is to keep them well amused.  If you knew the diversions that have to be invented before these despotic sovereigns will permit a soft sponge to be passed over every nook and cranny, you would be awestruck at the amount of ingenuity and intelligence demanded by the maternal profession when one takes it seriously.  Prayers, scoldings, promises, are alike in requisition; above all, the jugglery must be so dexterous that it defies detection.  The case would be desperate had not Providence to the cunning of the child matched that of the mother.  A child is a diplomatist, only to be mastered, like the diplomatists of the great world, through his passions!  Happily, it takes little to make these cherubs laugh; the fall of a brush, a piece of soap slipping from the hand, and what merry shouts!  And if our triumphs are dearly bought, still triumphs they are, though hidden from mortal eye.  Even the father knows nothing of it all.  None but God and His angels—­and perhaps you—­can fathom the glances of satisfaction which Mary and I exchange when the little creatures’ toilet is at last concluded, and they stand, spotless and shining, amid a chaos of soap, sponges, combs, basins, blotting-paper, flannel, and all the nameless litter of a true English “nursery.”