The contrast was striking, and the lesson deep. I would softly approach
these little boots in order not to wake the little man who was still
asleep in the adjoining room; I felt them, I turned them over, I looked
at them on all sides, and I found a delightful smile rise to my lips.
Never did the old violet-scented glove that lay for so long in the inmost
recess of my drawer procure me so sweet an emotion.

Paternal love is no trifle; it has its follies and weaknesses, it is
puerile and sublime, it can neither be analyzed nor explained, it is
simply felt, and I yielded myself to it with delight.

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."