It is only when some dim-eyed,
white-robed shape, scarcely seen, scarcely felt, steps softly in and
steals away the little troublesome bundle of life with solemn eye and
hushed lip, that we have time to pause, to look, to grieve.
This little Jacques, when I came to his father's house, was a rampant,
noisy, cunning child, with the vivacity of French and American blood
mingling in his veins, and filling him with strongest tendencies to
mischief, and prompting elfish feats of activity. He was not by any
means a fascinating child,--in fact, no children ever fascinated
me,--but this little fellow was rather disagreeable, a wonder to his
father, a horror to his mother, and a great annoyance generally;
we were all rather cross with him, and he was universally put down,
thrust aside, and ordered out of the way.
This was the state of affairs when I came. It was little Jacques, with
a high forehead, white, tightly curling hair, and mischief-full blue
eye, who made himself translator of all imaginable inquisitorial
French phrases for my benefit,--who questioned, and tormented,
and made faces at me,--who pulled my apron, disappeared with my
carpet-bag, and placed a generous slice of molasses-candy upon the
seat of my chair, when I sat down to rest myself.
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