The wind tore from the pane the plaster of paper, which flew across the
hut; but this was nothing to the children, who were entering life anew.
Whilst the little girl drank, and the little boy ate, Ursus grumbled,--

"Drunkenness begins in the infant in swaddling clothes. What useful
trouble Bishop Tillotson gives himself, thundering against excessive
drinking. What an odious draught of wind! And then my stove is old. It
allows puffs of smoke to escape enough to give you trichiasis. One has
the inconvenience of cold, and the inconvenience of fire. One cannot see
clearly. That being over there abuses my hospitality. Well, I have not
been able to distinguish the animal's face yet. Comfort is wanting
here. By Jove! I am a great admirer of exquisite banquets in well closed
rooms. I have missed my vocation. I was born to be a sensualist. The
greatest of stoics was Philoxenus, who wished to possess the neck of a
crane, so as to be longer in tasting the pleasures of the table.
Receipts to-day, naught. Nothing sold all day. Inhabitants, servants,
and tradesmen, here is the doctor, here are the drugs. You are losing
your time, old friend. Pack up your physic. Every one is well down here.
It's a cursed town, where every one is well! The skies alone have
diarrhoea--what snow! Anaxagoras taught that the snow was black; and he
was right, cold being blackness. Ice is night. What a hurricane! I can
fancy the delight of those at sea. The hurricane is the passage of
demons. It is the row of the tempest fiends galloping and rolling head
over heels above our bone-boxes. In the cloud this one has a tail, that
one has horns, another a flame for a tongue, another claws to its wings,
another a lord chancellor's paunch, another an academician's pate. You
may observe a form in every sound. To every fresh wind a fresh demon.
The ear hears, the eye sees, the crash is a face. Zounds! There are
folks at sea--that is certain. My friends, get through the storm as best
you can. I have enough to do to get through life. Come now, do I keep an