Then, with a sudden movement, he stooped over, and, seizing Beppo in both arms, hugged and squeezed him till poor Beppo squeaked with surprise, and opened his red mouth and fairly gasped for breath.  But Felix only hugged him the harder, murmuring under his breath, “Bless thy little heart, Beppo!  Bless thy little heart!” For in a vague way he realized that the truant lamb had somehow brought him his heart’s desire, and that was quite enough Christmas happiness for one year.

And the little Lady Elinor was right, too.  Years after, when Felix grew to be a man, he did, in very truth, become a “famous carver,” as she had declared.

Far surpassing his first master, the Pere Videau, he traveled and worked in many cities; yet never, through all his long life, did he forget that Christmas Eve in the little village of Sur Varne.

Those who knew him best said that among his dearest treasures he always kept a beautifully carved little box, and in it a bit of faded crimson ribbon from the looms of Lyons.  While, as for Beppo—­well, if ever some happy day you chance to visit the lovely land of Provence, perhaps you will see a certain grand old cathedral in the ancient city of Arles; and, if you do, look sharp at the figure of a lamb chiseled in white stone over the great portal.  Look well, I say, for Felix, when he carved it, would have told you that he was thinking all the while of his little pet lamb Beppo.

THE SABOT OF LITTLE WOLFF

FRANCOIS COPPEE

Once upon a time,—­it was so long ago that the whole world has forgotten the date,—­in a city in the north of Europe, whose name is so difficult to pronounce that nobody remembers it,—­once upon a time there was a little boy of seven, named Wolff.  He was an orphan in charge of an old aunt who was hard and avaricious, who only kissed him on New Year’s Day, and who breathed a sigh of regret every time that she gave him a porringer of soup.

But the poor little lad was naturally so good that he loved his aunt just the same, although she frightened him very much; and he could never see her without trembling, for fear she would whip him.

As the aunt of Wolff was known through all the village to have a house and an old stocking full of gold, she did not dare send her nephew to the school for the poor, but she obtained a reduction of the price with the schoolmaster whose school little Wolff attended.  The teacher, vexed at having a scholar so badly dressed and who paid so poorly, often punished him unjustly, and even set his fellow-pupils against him.

The poor little fellow was therefore as miserable as the stones in the street, and hid himself in out-of-the-way corners to cry when Christmas came.