ight, and when I touched his white neck with
my finger he broke into a laugh and showed me his little white pearls,
as he clasped my head in his two chubby arms.

His first tooth was an event. We went into the light the better to see.
The grandparents looked through their glasses at the little white spot,
and I, with outstretched neck, demonstrated, explained and proved. And
all at once I ran off to the cellar to seek out in the right corner a
bottle of the best.

My son's first tooth. We spoke of his career during dinner, and at
dessert grand-mamma gave us a song.

After this tooth came others, and with them tears and pain, but then
when they were all there how proudly he bit into his slice of bread, how
vigorously he attacked his chop in order to eat "like papa."

"Like papa," do you remember how these two words warm the heart, and how
many transgressions they cause to be forgiven.

My great happiness,--is it yours too?--was to be present at my darling's
awakening. I knew the time. I would gently draw aside the curtains of
his cradle and watch him as I waited.

I usually found him stretched diagonally, lost in the chaos of sheets
and blankets, his legs in the air, his arms crossed above his head.
Often his plump little hand still clutched the toy that had helped to
send him off to sleep, and through his parted lips came the regular
murmur of his soft breathing. The warmth of his sleep had given his
cheeks the tint of a well-ripened peach. His skin was warm, and
the perspiration of the night glittered on his forehead in little
imperceptible pearls.

Soon his hand would make a movement; his foot pushed away the blanket,
his whole body stirred, he rubbed an eye, stretched out his arms, and
then his look from under his scarcely raised eyelids would rest on me.

He would smile at me, murmuring softly, so softly that I would hold my
breath to seize all the shades of his music.

"Dood mornin', papa."

"Good morning, my little man; have you slept well?"

We held out our arms to each other and embraced like old friends.

Then the talking would begin. He chatted as the lark would sing to the
rising sun. Endless stories.

He would tell me his dreams, asking after each sentence for "his nice,
warm bread and milk, with plenty of sugar." And when his breakfast came
up, what an outburst of laughter, what joy as he drew himself up to
reach it; then his eye would glitter with a tear in the corner, and the
chatter begin