It is with the memory of Sundays that the song of the “good hot cakes” is most closely associated; for upon that evening, having no duties to perform in the way of lessons, I sat with my parents in the parlor3 upon the ground floor which overlooked the street; therefore, when almost upon the stroke of nine, the poor old woman passed along the sidewalk, and her sonorous4 chant broke into the stillness of the frosty night I was near enough to hear her distinctly.
She presaged5 the coming of cold weather as swallows announce the advent6 of the spring. After a succession of cool autumnal days, the first time we heard her song we would say: “Well, we may conclude that winter is really here.”
This parlor where we sat together seemed a very immense room to me. It was simply and tastefully furnished and arranged: the walls and the woodwork were brown, decorated with strips of gold: the furniture, dating from the time of Louis Philippe, was upholstered in red velvet7; the family portraits were in severe black and gold frames; in the centre of the table, in the place of honor, there was a large Bible that had been printed in the sixteenth century. This was a precious heirloom that had come down to us from our Huguenot ancestors who had, at that time, been persecuted8 for their faith. We had baskets and vases of flowers disposed about the room, a custom which then was not so usual as it is now.
It was always a delicious moment for me when we left the dining-room and went into the parlor, for the latter room had an air of great peace and comfort; and when all the family were seated there in a circle, mother, grandmother and aunts, I began to skip about noisily in their midst from very joy at being surrounded by so many loved ones; and I waited impatiently for them to begin the little games which they were in the habit of playing with me early in the evening. Our neighbors, the D——'s, came to see us every Sunday; it was a time-honored custom in our two families, between whom there existed a friendship that had its inception10 in the country generations before our time; it was a friendship which had been handed down to us as a precious heritage. At about eight o'clock, when I recognized their ring, I jumped for joy, and I could not restrain myself from running to the street door to meet them, for Lucette, my dear friend, always came with her parents.
Alas11! how sad is my reverie when I think of the beloved and venerated12 forms of those who surrounded me upon those happy Sunday evenings; the majority of them have passed away, and their faces, when I seek to recall them, are dim and misty—some are altogether lost from memory.
Then friends and relatives would begin to play, for the purpose of giving me pleasure, the little games of which I was so fond; they played “Marriage,” “My Lady's Toilet,” “The Horned Knight,” and “The Lovely Shepherdess.” Everybody took part in them, even the old people, and my grand aunt Bertha, the eldest13 of all, was irresistibly14 droll15.
The refrain became louder rapidly, for the singer trotted16 along with short, quick steps, and very soon she was under our window, where she kept repeating her song in a shrill17, cracked voice.
When they would allow me to do so, it was my greatest pleasure to run to the door, followed by an indulgent aunt, not so much for the purpose of buying the cakes, however, for they were coarse and unpalatable, as to stop the old woman and talk with her.
The poor old peddler would approach with a courtesy, proud of being called, and
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