Paris was saved--the war was over--Germany had lost--there would soon be an end now--Jem and Jerry would be back.

The black clouds had rolled by.
"Don't you dare have colic this joyful night," she told the baby.

"If you do I'll clap you back into your soup tureen and ship you off to Hopetown--by freight--on the early train.

You have got beautiful eyes--and you're not quite as red and wrinkled as you were--but you haven't a speck of hair--and your hands are like little claws--and I don't like you a bit better than I ever did.

But I hope your poor little white mother knows that you're tucked in a soft basket with a bottle of milk as rich as Morgan allows instead of perishing by inches with old Meg Conover.