Let the papa without weakness cast the first stone at me; the mammas will avenge me.

Remember that this little laced boot, with a hole in the toe, reminded me of his plump little foot, and that a thousand recollections were connected with that dear trifle.

I recalled him, dear child, as when I cut his toe nails, wriggling about, pulling at my beard, and laughing in spite of himself, for he was ticklish.

I recalled him as when of an evening in front of a good fire, I pulled off his little socks.  What a treat.

I would say “one, two.”  And he, clad in his long nightgown, his hands lost in the sleeves, would wait with glittering eyes, and ready to break into a fit of laughter for the “three.”

At last after a thousand delays, a thousand little teasings that excited his impatience and allowed me to snatch five or six kisses, I said “three.”

The sock flew away.  Then there was a wild joy; he would throw himself back on my arm, waving his bare legs in the air.  From his open mouth, in which two rows of shining little pearls could be distinguished, welled forth a burst of ringing laughter.

His mother, who, however, laughed too, would say the next minute, “Come, baby, come, my little angel, you will get cold . . .  But leave off. . .  Will you have done, you little demon?”

She wanted to scold, but she could not be serious at the sight of his fair-haired head, and flushed, smiling, happy face, thrown back on my knee.

She would look at me, and say: 

“He is unbearable.  Good gracious! what a child.”

But I understood that this meant: 

“Look how handsome, sturdy and healthy he is, our baby, our little man, our son.”

And indeed he was adorable; at least I thought so.

I had the wisdom—­I can say it now that my hair is white—­not to let one of those happy moments pass without amply profiting by it, and really I did well.  Pity the fathers who do not know how to be papas as often as possible, who do not know how to roll on the carpet, play at being a horse, pretend to be the great wolf, undress their baby, imitate the barking of the dog, and the roar of the lion, bite whole mouthfuls without hurting, and hide behind armchairs so as to let themselves be seen.

Pity sincerely these unfortunates.  It is not only pleasant child’s play that they neglect, but true pleasure, delightful enjoyment, the scraps of that happiness which is greatly calumniated and accused of not existing because we expect it to fall from heaven in a solid mass when it lies at our feet in fine powder.  Let us pick up the fragments, and not grumble too much; every day brings us with its bread its ration of happiness.

Let us walk slowly and look down on the ground, searching around us and seeking in the corners; it is there that Providence has its hiding-places.

I have always laughed at those people who rush through life at full speed, with dilated nostrils, uneasy eyes, and glance rivetted on the horizon.  It seems as though the present scorched their feet, and when you say to them, “Stop a moment, alight, take a glass of this good old wine, let us chat a little, laugh a little, kiss your child.”