when i did not play with my dolls, i made little chapels and altars in all the corners of the house. i made myself a chasuble out of my mother’s apron, and i sang away, as loudly as ever i could, all the hymns i knew by heart, and many that i composed for the occasion. my father said nothing to this, because he thought that, after all, a child must amuse itself in some way; however, i generally chose the days when he was out, and my grands services took place always when he went out fishing. on those days i felt i was free, gay, and happy. i sang my most beautiful anthems, composed of any words that came into my head, terminating in us or um; and the house resounded with the noise of my bell.

but the procession, consisting of myself alone, did not go beyond the different rooms and the kitchen. i did not go into the loft, because who ever heard of a grand imposing ceremony taking place in a loft? i would, however, have gladly gone into the garden to ask a blessing upon our rose trees, and the one apricot tree which grew there, but which never had any apricots on it; only the notorious intolerance of that little bantam-cock prevented the procession venturing out of doors.

when i met my mother, as i marched about the passages in pomp, she would smile kindly at me, and kiss me as i passed. then i would whisper in her ear, “mamma, i should like to be a priest.”

“and why not, my darling,” would be her reply, “if it is your vocation?”