At length he crosses the room, and, holding out his two hands to mine:  “Baby wishes you a Happy New Year,” he says, in an earnest voice.

“Poor little love, with his bare feet!  Come, darling, and warm yourself under the counterpane.”

I lift him toward me, but at this moment my wife, who is asleep, suddenly wakes.

“Who is there?” she exclaims, feeling for the bell.  “Thieves!”

“It is we two, dear.”

“Who?  Good heavens! how you frightened me!  I was dreaming the house was on fire, and that I heard your voice amid the raging flames.  You were very indiscreet in shouting like that!”

“Shouting! but you forget, mamma, that it is New Year’s Day, the day of smiles and kisses?  Baby was waiting for you to wake up, as well as myself.”

However, I wrap the little fellow up in the eiderdown quilt and warm his cold feet in my hands.

“Mamma, it is New Year’s Day,” he exclaims.  With his arms he draws our two heads together, puts forward his own and kisses us at haphazard with his moist lips.  I feel his dimpled fists digging into my neck, his little fingers entangled in my beard.

My moustache tickles the tip of his nose, and he bursts into a fit of joyous laughter as he throws his head back.

His mother, who has recovered from her fright, takes him in her arms and rings the bell.

“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!”

“To match my muff, dear, kind husband.”

“With a Noah on wheels, dear papa.  I do love you so.”

They throw themselves on my neck, four arms are clasped round me at once.  Emotion gets the better of me, and a tear steals into my eye.  There are two in those of my wife, and Baby, losing his head, sobs as he kisses my hand.