of her head.

My father used to pass an hour or two nightly at the tavern of the
_Little Bacchus_; there also Jeannetae the hurdy-gurdy player
and Catherine the lacemaker were regular frequenters. And every time
he returned home somewhat later than usual he said in a soft voice,
while pulling his cotton night-cap on:

"Barbe, sleep in peace; as I have just said to the limping cutler:
'You are a holy and worthy woman.'"

I was six years old when, one day, readjusting his apron, with him
always a sign of resolution, he said to me:

"Miraut, our good dog, has turned my roasting-spit during these last
fourteen years. I have nothing to reproach him with. He is a good
servant, who has never stolen the smallest morsel of turkey or
goose. He was always satisfied to lick the roaster as his wage. But
he is getting old. His legs are getting stiff; he can't see, and is
no more good to turn the handle. Jacquot, my boy, it is your duty to
take his place. With some thought and some practice, you certainly
will succeed in doing as well as he."

Miraut listened to these words and wagged his tail as a sign of
approbation. My father continued:

"Now then, seated on this stool, you'll turn the spit. But to form
your mind you'll con your horn-book, and when, afterwards, you are
able to read type, you'll learn by heart some grammar or morality
book, or those fine maxims of the Old and New Testaments. And that