There goes that little André Corbin, the poulterer’s son, running along the slippery top of Madame Pelé’s garden wall, which is nearly ten feet high.
“Good heavens,” cries Mary, “stop him! Don’t you remember? When he gets to the corner he’ll fall down and break both his legs!”
I rush and bellow out to him—
“Descends donc, malheureux; tu vas te casser les deux jambes! Saute! saute!” … I cry, holding out my arms. He does not pay the slightest attention: he reaches the corner, followed low down by Gogo and Mimsey, who are beside themselves with generous envy and admiration. Stimulated by their applause, he becomes more foolhardy than ever, and even tries to be droll, and standing on one leg, sings a little song that begins—
“Maman m’a donné quat’ sous Pour m’en aller à la foire, Non pas p
