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.

It is absurd.

Absurd, I don't know; but delightful, I can answer for it.

Does not grief, after all, call forth enough tears for us to forgive joy
the solitary one she perchance causes us to shed!

Life is not so sweet for us to risk ourselves in it singlehanded, and
when the heart is empty the way seems very long.

It is so pleasant to feel one's self loved, to hear beside one the
cadenced steps of one's fellow-travellers, and to say, "They are here,
our three hearts beat in unison." So pleasant once a year, when the
great clock strikes the first of January, to sit down beside the path,