ul 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."

"Impossible," they reply; "I am expected over there. There I shall
converse, there I shall drink delicious wine, there I shall give
expansion to paternal love, there I shall be happy!"

And when they do get "there," breathless and tired out, and claim the
price of their fatigue, the present, laughing behind its spectacles,
says, "Monsieur, the bank is closed."

The future promises, it is the present that pays, and one should have a
good understanding with the one that keeps the keys of the safe.

Why fancy that you are a dupe of Providence?

Do you think that Providence has the time to serve up to each of you
perfect happiness, already dressed on a golden plate, and to play music
during your repast into the bargain? Yet that is what a great many people
would like.

We must be reasonable, tuck up our sleeves and look after our cooking
ourselves, and not insist that heaven should put itself out of the way to
skim our soup.

I used to muse on all this of an evening when my baby was in my arms, and
his moist, regular breathing fanned my hand. I thought of the happy
moments he had already given me, and was grateful to him for them.

"How easy it is," I said to myself, "to be happy, and what a singular
fancy that is of going as far as China in quest of amusement."

My wife was of my opinion, and we would sit for hours by the fire talking
of what we felt.

"You, do you see, dear? love otherwise than I do," she often said to me.
"Papas calculate more. Their love requires a return. They do not really
love their child till the day on which their self-esteem as its father is
flattered. There is something of ownership in it. You