Kc 1073
SHELF
· Accessions. 38,.69
THE BOSTON-LIBRARY SOCIETY.
ORGANIZED 1792. INCORPORATED 1794.
18 BOYLSTON PLACE.-
Added Feb..20., 1900
To be returned in five weeks. A fine of one cent.
will be incurred for each day this volume is detained
beyond that time.
BANDELLED
1940


THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE
AND OTHER STORIES


Da
RC1073
TAON
HAVARD
UNDERSITY
LIBRARY
OCT 8 1941
Copyright, 1899
By Dodd, Mead AND COMPANY
University Press
Joan Wilson and Son, CAMBRIDGE, U.S. A.


TO
My best Comrade
My Husband


CONTENTS
PAGE
The Goodness of Saint Rocque ... 3
Tony's Wife ...... ... 19
The Fisherman of Pass Christian . .
M'sieu Fortier's Violin ... ...
By the Bayou St. John .....
When the Bayou Overflows ....
Mr. Baptiste .........
A CARNIVAL JANGLE .........
Little Miss SOPHIE . .
Sister JOSEPHA . . . .
155
The Praline Woman. . . ... 175
ODALIE ........... 183
LA JUANITA . . . . . . . . . . 195
TITEE . . . . . . . . . . . . 211
III
137


ہوا
م یں
سیاسی


بلا
سے اسے
اس


THE GOODNESS OF SAINT
ROCQUE
MANUELA was tall and slender and
graceful, and once you knew her the
lithe form could never be mistaken.
She walked with the easy spring that
comes from a perfectly arched foot.
To-day she swept swiftly down Marais
Street, casting a quick glance here and
there from under her heavy veil as if
she feared she was being followed. If
you had peered under the veil, you
would have seen that Manuela's dark
eyes were swollen and discoloured about
the lids, as though they had known a
sleepless, tearful night.
There had been a picnic the day be-
fore, and as merry a crowd of giddy,
chattering Creole girls and boys as


4 The Goodness of Saint Rocque
ever you could see boarded the ram-
shackle dummy-train that puffed its
way wheezily out wide Elysian Fields
Street, around the lily-covered bayous,
to Milneburg-on-the-Lake. Now, a
picnic at Milneburg is a thing to be
remembered for ever. One charters a
rickety-looking, weather-beaten danc-
ing-pavilion, built over the water, and
after storing the children — for your
true Creole never leaves the small folks
at home - and the baskets and mothers
downstairs, the young folks go up-
stairs and dance to the tune of the best
band you ever heard. For what can
equal the music of a violin, a guitar, a
cornet, and a bass viol to trip the quad-
rille to at a picnic?
Then one can fish in the lake and go
bathing under the prim bath-houses,
so severely separated sexually, and go
rowing on the lake in a trim boat, fol-
lowed by the shrill warnings of anx-


6 The Goodness of Saint Rocque
ful and beautiful for that. There had
been more than enough for her. But
Manuela loved Theophilé, you see, and
no one could take his place. Still, she
had tossed her head and let her silvery
laughter ring out in the dance, as
though she were the happiest of mor-
tals, and had tripped home with Henri,
leaning on his arm, and looking up
into his eyes as though she adored
him.
This morning she showed the traces
of a sleepless night and an aching heart
as she walked down Marais Street.
Across wide St. Rocque Avenue she
hastened. “Two blocks to the river
and one below —” she repeated to her-
self breathlessly. Then she stood on
the corner gazing about her, until with
a final summoning of a desperate cour-
age she dived through a small wicket
gate into a garden of weed-choked
flowers.


The Goodness of Saint Rocque 7
was
There was a hoarse, rusty little bell on
the gate that gave querulous tongue as
she pushed it open. The house that
sat back in the yard was little and old
and weather-beaten. Its one-story
frame had once been painted, but that
was a memory remote and traditional.
A straggling morning-glory strove to
conceal its time-ravaged face. The
little walk of broken bits of brick was
reddened carefully, and the one little
step was scrupulously yellow-washed,
which denoted that the occupants were
cleanly as well as religious.
Manuela's timid knock was answered
by a harsh “Entrez.”
It was a small sombre room within,
with a bare yellow-washed floor and
ragged curtains at the little window. In
a corner was a diminutive altar draped
with threadbare lace. The red glow of
the taper lighted a cheap print of St.
Joseph and a brazen crucifix. The


10 The Goodness of Saint Rocque
the cemetery, for this was Friday,
when all those who wish good luck
pray to the saint, and wash their steps
promptly at twelve o'clock with a
wondrous mixture to guard the house.
Manuela bought a candle from the
keeper of the little lodge at the en-
trance, and pausing one instant by the
great sun-dial to see if the heavens and
the hour were propitious, glided into
the tiny chapel, dim and stifling with
heavy air from myriad wish-candles
blazing on the wide table before the
altar-rail. She said her prayer and
lighting her candle placed it with the
others.
Mon Dieu ! how brightly the sun
seemed to shine now, she thought,
pausing at the door on her way out.
Her small finger-tips, still bedewed with
holy water, rested caressingly on a
gamin's head. The ivy which enfolds
the quaint chapel never seemed so


The Goodness of Saint Rocque il
nes
serve
green; the shrines which serve as the
Way of the Cross never seemed so
artistic; the baby graves, even, seemed
cheerful.
Theophilé called Sunday. Manuela's
heart leaped. He had been spending
his Sundays with Claralie. His stay
was short and he was plainly bored.
But Manuela knelt to thank the good
St. Rocque that night, and fondled the
charm about her slim waist. There
came a box of bonbons during the
week, with a decorative card all roses
and fringe, from Theophilé; but being
a Creole, and therefore superstitiously
careful, and having been reared by a
wise and experienced maman to mistrust
the gifts of a recreant lover, Manuela
quietly thrust bonbons, box, and card
into the kitchen fire, and the Friday
following placed the second candle of
her nouvena in St. Rocque.
Those of Manuela's friends who had


12 The Goodness of Saint Rocque
watched with indignation Theophilé
gallantly leading Claralie home from
High Mass on Sundays, gasped with
astonishment when the next Sunday,
with his usual bow, the young man
offered Manuela his arm as the wor-
shippers filed out in step to the
organ's march. Claralie tossed her
head as she crossed herself with holy
water, and the pink in her cheeks was
brighter than usual.
Manuela smiled a bright good-morn-
ing when she met Claralie in St. Rocque
the next Friday. The little blonde
blushed furiously, and Manuela rushed
post-haste to the Wizened One to
confer upon this new issue.
“H’it ees good,” said the dame, shak-
ing her turbaned head. “ She ees 'fraid,
she will work, mais you' charm, h'it
weel beat her.”
And Manuela departed with radiant
eyes.


14 The Goodness of Saint Rocque
wa
a
Theophilé shrugged his shoulders
and changed the conversation.
The next week there was a birthday
fête in honour of Louise, Theophile's
young sister. Everyone was bidden,
and no one thought of refusing, for
Louise was young, and this would be
her first party. So, though the night
was hot, the dancing went on as merrily
as light young feet could make it go.
Claralie fluffed her dainty white skirts,
and cast mischievous sparkles in the
direction of Theophilé, who with the
maman and Louise was bravely trying
not to look self-conscious. Manuela,
tall and calm and proud-looking, in a
cool, pale yellow gown was apparently
enjoying herself without paying the
slightest attention to her young host.
“Have I the pleasure of this dance?”
he asked her finally, in a lull of the
music.
She bowed assent, and as if moved


The Goodness of Saint Rocque 15
an
by a common impulse they strolled out
of the dancing-room into the cool,
quaint garden, where jessamines gave
out an overpowering perfume, and a
caged mocking-bird complained melo-
diously to the full moon in the sky.
It must have been an engrossing
tête-a-tête, for the call to supper had
sounded twice before they heard and
hurried into the house. The march
had formed with Louise radiantly
leading on the arm of papa. Claralie
tripped by with Leon. Of course,
nothing remained for Theophilé and
Manuela to do but to bring up the
rear, for which they received much
good-natured chaffing.
But when the party reached the
dining-room, Theophilé proudly led
his partner to the head of the table, at
the right hand of maman, and smiled
benignly about at the delighted assem-
blage. Now you know, when a Creole
PC


TONY'S WIFE





TONY'S WIFE
“GIMME fi'cents worth ó candy,
please.” It was the little Jew girl
who spoke, and Tony's wife roused
herself from her knitting to rise and
count out the multi-hued candy which
should go in exchange for the dingy
nickel grasped in warm, damp fingers.
Three long sticks, carefully wrapped in
crispest brown paper, and a half dozen
or more of pink candy fish for lagniappe,
and the little Jew girl sped away in
blissful contentment. Tony's wife re-
sumed her knitting with a stifled sigh
until the next customer should come.
A low growl caused her to look up
apprehensively. Tony himself stood
beetle-browed and huge in the small
doorway.
su


20 Tony's Wife
“Get up from there,” he muttered,
“ and open two dozen oysters right
away; the Eliots want 'em.” His
English was unaccented. It was long
since he had seen Italy.
She moved meekly behind the
counter, and began work on the thick
shells. Tony stretched his long neck
up the street.
“ Mr. Tony, mama wants some
charcoal.” The very small voice at
his feet must have pleased him, for his
black brows relaxed into a smile, and
he poked the little one's chin with a
hard, dirty finger, as he emptied the
ridiculously small bucket of charcoal
into the child's bucket, and gave a
banana for lagniappe.
The crackling of shells went on
behind, and a stified sob arose as a bit
of sharp edge cut into the thin, worn
fingers that clasped the knife.
“Hurry up there, will you ?”


Tony's Wife
21
growled the black brows; “the Eliots
are sending for the oysters.”
She deftly strained and counted
them, and, after wiping her fingers,
resumed her seat, and took up the end-
less crochet work, with her usual stifled
sigh.
Tony and his wife had always been
in this same little queer old shop on
Prytania Street, at least to the memory
of the oldest inhabitant in the neigh-
bourhood. When or how they came, or
how they stayed, no one knew ; it was
enough that they were there, like a sort
of ancestral fixture to the street. The
neighbourhood was fine enough to look
down upon these two tumble-down
shops at the corner, kept by Tony
and Mrs. Murphy, the grocer. It was
a semi-fashionable locality, far up-town,
away from the old-time French quarter.
It was the sort of neighbourhood where
millionaires live before their fortunes are


22 Tony's Wife
made and fashionable, high-priced pri-
vate schools flourish, where the small
cottages are occupied by aspiring school-
teachers and choir-singers. Such was
this locality, and you must admit that
it was indeed a condescension to tole-
rate Tony and Mrs. Murphy.
He was a great, black-bearded,
hoarse-voiced, six-foot specimen of
Italian humanity, who looked in his
little shop and on the prosaic pave-
ment of Prytania Street somewhat as
Hercules might seem in a modern draw-
ing-room. You instinctively thought
of wild mountain-passes, and the gleam-
ing dirks of bandit contadini in look-
ing at him. What his last name was,
no one knew. Someone had maintained
once that he had been christened An-
tonio Malatesta, but that was unauthen-
tic, and as little to be believed as that
other wild theory that her name was
Mary,


Tony's Wife 23
miri
use
She was meek, pale, little, ugly, and
German. Altogether part of his arms
and legs would have very decently
made another larger than she. Her
hair was pale and drawn in sleek, thin
tightness away from a pinched, piti-
ful face, whose dull cold eyes hurt you,
because you knew they were trying to
mirror sorrow, and could not because
of their expressionless quality. No
matter what the weather or what her
other toilet, she always wore a thin
little shawl of dingy brick-dust hue
about her shoulders. No matter what
the occasion or what the day, she
always carried her knitting with her,
and seldom ceased the incessant twist,
· twist of the shining steel among the
white cotton meshes. She might put
down the needles and lace into the
spool-box long enough to open oysters,
or wrap up fruit and candy, or count
out wood and coal into infinitesimal


24 Tony's Wife
portions, or do her housework; but the
knitting was snatched with avidity at
the first spare moment, and the worn,
white, blue-marked fingers, half en-
closed in kid-glove stalls for protection,
would writhe and twist in and out
again. Little girls just learning to cro-
chet borrowed their patterns from
Tony's wife, and it was considered
quite a mark of advancement to have
her inspect a bit of lace done by eager,
chubby fingers. The ladies in larger
houses, whose husbands would be mil-
lionaires some day, bought her lace, and
gave it to their servants for Christmas
presents.
As for Tony, when she was slow in
opening his oysters or in cooking his
red beans and spaghetti, he roared at
her, and prefixed picturesque adjectives
to her lace, which made her hide it
under her apron with a fearsome look in
her dull eyes.


Tony's Wife
25
He hated her in a lusty, roaring
fashion, as a healthy beefy boy hates a
sick cat and torments it to madness.
When she displeased him, he beat her,
and knocked her frail form on the
floor. The children could tell when
this had happened. Her eyes would
be red, and there would be blue marks
on her face and neck. “Poor Mrs.
Tony,” they would say, and nestle
close to her. Tony did not roar at her
for petting them, perhaps, because they
spent money on the multi-hued candy
in glass jars on the shelves.
Her mother appeared upon the scene
once, and stayed a short time; but
Tony got drunk one day and beat her
because she ate too much, and she dis-
appeared soon after. Whence she
came and where she departed, no one
could tell, not even Mrs. Murphy, the
Pauline Pry and Gazette of the block.
Tony had gout, and suffered for


26 Tony's Wife
ma
ncrea
many days in roaring helplessness, the
while his foot, bound and swathed in
many folds of red flannel, lay on the
chair before him. In proportion as his
gout increased and he bawled from
pure physical discomfort, she became
light-hearted, and moved about the
shop with real, brisk cheeriness. He
could not hit her then without such
pain that after one or two trials he
gave up in disgust.
So the dull years had passed, and life
had gone on pretty much the same for
Tony and the German wife and the
shop. The children came on Sunday
evenings to buy the stick candy, and
on week-days for coal and wood. The
servants came to buy oysters for the
larger houses, and to gossip over the
counter about their employers. The
little dry woman knitted, and the big
man moved lazily in and out in his red
flannel shirt, exchanged politics with


Tony's Wife 27
the tailor next door through the win-
dow, or lounged into Mrs. Murphy's
bar and drank fiercely. Some of the
children grew up and moved away, and
other little girls came to buy candy and
eat pink lagniappe fishes, and the shop
still thrived.
One day Tony was ill, more than the
mummied foot of gout, or the wheeze
of asthma ; he must keep his bed and
send for the doctor.
She clutched his arm when he came,
and pulled him into the tiny room.
“Is it — is it anything much, doc-
tor?” she gasped.
Æsculapius shook his head as wisely
as the occasion would permit. She
followed him out of the room into the
n
room
shop.
“Do you— will he get well, doctor?”
Æsculapius buttoned up his frock
coat, smoothed his shining hat, cleared
his throat, then replied oracularly,


28 Tony's Wife
“Madam, he is completely burned
out inside. Empty as a shell, madam,
empty as a shell. He cannot live, for
he has nothing to live on.”
As the cobblestones rattled under
the doctor's equipage rolling leisurely
up Prytania Street, Tony's wife sat in
her chair and laughed, - laughed with
a hearty joyousness that lifted the film
from the dull eyes and disclosed a
sparkle beneath.
The drear days went by, and Tony
lay like a veritable Samson shorn of his
strength, for his voice was sunken to
a hoarse, sibilant whisper, and his black
eyes gazed fiercely from the shock of
hair and beard about a white face. Life
went on pretty much as before in the
shop; the children paused to ask how
Mr. Tony was, and even hushed the
jingles on their bell hoops as they
passed the door. Red-headed Jimmie,
Mrs. Murphy's nephew, did the hard


Tony's Wife 29
jobs, such as splitting wood and lifting
coal from the bin; and in the intervals
between tending the fallen giant and
waiting on the customers, Tony's wife
sat in her accustomed chair, knitting
fiercely, with an inscrutable smile about
her purple compressed mouth.
Then John came, introducing him-
self, serpent-wise, into the Eden of her
bosom.
John was Tony's brother, huge and
bluff too, but fair and blond, with the
beauty of Northern Italy. With the
same lack of race pride which Tony
had displayed in selecting his German
spouse, John had taken unto himself
Betty, a daughter of Erin, aggressive,
powerful, and cross-eyed. He turned up
now, having heard of this illness, and
assumed an air of remarkable authority
at once.
A hunted look stole into the dull
eyes, and after John had departed with


30
Tony's Wife
blustering directions as to Tony's wel-
fare, she crept to his bedside timidly.
“Tony,” she said,—“Tony, you are
very sick.”
An inarticulate growl was the only
response.
“Tony, you ought to see the priest;
you must n't go any longer without
taking the sacrament.”
The growl deepened into words.
“Don't want any priest; you 're al-
ways after some snivelling old woman's
fuss. You and Mrs. Murphy go on
with your church; it won't make you
any better.”
She shivered under this parting shot,
and crept back into the shop. Still the
priest came next day.
She followed him in to the bedside
and knelt timidly.
“Tony,” she whispered, “here's
Father Leblanc.”
Tony was too languid to curse out


32 Tony's Wife
slowly, “and you sha'n't have it, not a
cent; John shall have it."
Father Leblanc shrank away like a
fading spectre. He came next day
and next day, only to see re-enacted the
same piteous scene,--the woman plead-
ing to be made a wife ere death hushed
Tony's blasphemies, the man chuck-
ling in pain-racked glee at the prospect
of her bereaved misery. Not all the
prayers of Father Leblanc nor the
wailings of Mrs. Murphy could alter
the determination of the will beneath
the shock of hair; he gloated in his
physical weakness at the tenacious
grasp on his mentality.
“Tony,” she wailed on the last day,
her voice rising to a shriek in its eager-
ness, “tell them I'm your wife; it'll be
the same. Only say it, Tony, before
you die ! ”
He raised his head, and turned stiff
eyes and gibbering mouth on her ; then,





THE FISHERMAN OF PASS
CHRISTIAN





Fisherman of Pass Christian 39
with one end of the huge seine between
his teeth, and the cord in his left hand,
the taller fisherman of the two paused
a half instant, his right arm extended,
grasping the folds of the net. There
was a swishing rush through the air,
and it settled with a sort of sob as it
cut the waters and struck a million
sparkles of fire from the waves. Then,
with backs bending under the strain,
the two men swung on the cord, draw-
ing in the net, laden with glittering
restless fish, which were unceremoni-
ously dumped on the boards to be put
into the fish-car awaiting them.
Philip laughingly picked up a soft,
gleaming jelly-fish, and threatened to
put it on Annette's neck. She screamed,
ran, slipped on the wet boards, and in
another instant would have fallen over
into the water below. The tall fisher-
man caught her in his arms and set her
on her feet.


Fisherman of Pass Christian 41
“No; he spoke correctly, and with
the accent that goes only with an ex-
cellent education.”
Philip shrugged his shoulders.
“ That's nothing remarkable. If you
stay about Pass Christian for any length
of time, you'll find more things than
perfect French and courtly grace among
fishermen to surprise you. These are
a wonderful people who live across the
Lake.”
Annette was lolling in the hammock
under the big catalpa-tree some days
later, when the gate opened, and
Natalie's big sun-bonnet appeared.
Natalie herself was discovered blush-
ing in its dainty depths. She was only
a little Creole seaside girl, you must
know, and very shy of the city demoi-
selles. Natalie's patois was quite as
different from Annette's French as it
was from the postmaster's English.
“ Mees Annette,” she began, peony-


42 Fisherman of Pass Christian
hued all over at her own boldness,
“ we will have one lil hay-ride this
night, and a fish-fry at the end. Will
you come?”
Annette sprang to her feet in delight.
“ Will I come? Certainly. How de-
lightful! You are so good to ask me.
What shall — what time” But Nata-
lie's pink bonnet had fled precipitately
down the shaded walk. Annette
laughed joyously as Philip lounged
down the gallery.
“I frightened the child away,” she
told him.
You've never been for a hay-ride
and fish-fry on the shores of the Mis-
sissippi Sound, have you? When the
summer boarders and the Northern
visitors undertake to give one, it is a
comparatively staid affair, where due
regard is had for one's wearing apparel,
and where there are servants to do the
hardest work. Then it is n't enjoyable


Fisherman of Pass Christian 43
at all. But when the natives, the
boys and girls who live there, make up
their minds to have fun, you may
depend upon its being just the best
kind.
This time there were twenty boys
and girls, a mamma or so, several papas,
and a grizzled fisherman to restrain the
ardor of the amateurs. The cart was
vast and solid, and two comfortable,
sleepy-looking mules constituted the
drawing power. There were also tin
horns, some guitars, an accordeon, and
a quartet of much praised voices. The
hay in the bottom of the wagon was
freely mixed with pine needles, whose
prickiness through your hose was
amply compensated for by its delicious
fragrance.
After a triumphantly noisy passage
down the beach one comes to the
stretch of heavy sand that lies between
Pass Christian proper and Henderson's
as


44 Fisherman of Pass Christian
Point. This is a hard pull for the
mules, and the more ambitious riders
get out and walk. Then, after a final
strain through the shifting'sands, bravo!
the shell road is reached, and one goes
cheering through the pine-trees to
Henderson's Point.
If ever you go to Pass Christian, you
must have a fish-fry at Henderson's
Point. It is the pine-thicketed, white-
beached peninsula jutting out from the
land, with one side caressed by the
waters of the Sound and the other
purred over by the blue waves of the
Bay of St. Louis. Here is the begin-
ning of the great three-mile trestle
bridge to the town of Bay St. Louis,
and to-night from the beach could be
seen the lights of the villas glittering
across the Bay like myriads of unsleep-
ing eyes.
Here upon a firm stretch of white
sand camped the merry-makers. Soon
acro


Fisherman of Pass Christian 45
a great fire of driftwood and pine
cones tossed its flames defiantly at a
radiant moon in the sky, and the fishers
were casting their nets in the sea. The
more daring of the girls waded bare-
legged in the water, holding pine-
torches, spearing flounders and peering
for soft-shell crabs.
Annette had wandered farther in the
shallow water than the rest. Suddenly
she stumbled against a stone, the torch
dropped and spluttered at her feet.
With a little helpless cry she looked
at the stretch of unfamiliar beach and
water to find herself all alone.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” said a
voice at her elbow; “ you are in dis-
tress ? ”
It was her fisherman, and with a
scarce conscious sigh of relief, Annette
put her hand into the outstretched
one at her side.
“I was looking for soft shells,” she
was


Fisherman of Pass Christian 47
one's bare feet, and they are more
numerous than sand fleas down at
Henderson's Point.
« True,” assented the fisherman ;
« then we shall have to wade back.”
The fishing was over when they
rounded the point and came in sight
of the cheery bonfire with its Rembrandt-
like group, and the air was savoury with
the smell of frying fish and crabs. The
fisherman was not to be tempted by
appeals to stay, but smilingly disap-
peared down the sands, the red glare
of his torch making a glowing track in
the water.
“Ah, Mees Annette,” whispered Nat-
alie, between mouthfuls of a rich croaker,
“ you have found a beau in the water.”
“And the fisherman of the Pass, too,”
laughed her cousin Ida.
Annette tossed her head, for Philip
had growled audibly.
“Do you know, Philip,” cried


48 Fisherman of Pass Christian
are S
Annette a few days after, rudely shak-
ing him from his siesta on the gallery, -
“ do you know that I have found my
fisherman's hut?”
“Hum,” was the only response.
“Yes, and it's the quaintest, most
delightful spot imaginable. Philip, do
come with me and see it.”
“Hum.”
“Oh, Philip, you are so lazy; do
come with me.”
“Yes, but, my dear Annette," pro-
tested Philip, “this is a warm day, and
I am tired.”
Still, his curiosity being aroused, he
went grumbling. It was not a very
long drive, back from the beach across
the railroad and through the pine
forest to the bank of a dark, slow-flow-
ing bayou. The fisherman's hut was
small, two-roomed, whitewashed, pine-
boarded, with the traditional mud
chimney acting as a sort of support to


Fisherman of Pass Christian 49
one of its uneven sides. Within was
a weird assortment of curios from every
uncivilized part of the globe. Also
were there fishing-tackle and guns in
reckless profusion. The fisherman, in
the kitchen of the mud-chimney, was
sardonically waging war with a basket
of little bayou crabs. .
“Entrez, mademoiselle et monsieur,”
he said pleasantly, grabbing a vicious
crab by its flippers, and smiling at
its wild attempts to bite. “You see
I am busy, but make yourself at
home.”
“Well, how on earth — ” began
Philip.
“Sh — sh — ” whispered Annette.
“I was driving out in the woods this
morning, and stumbled on the hut.
He asked me in, but I came right over
after you.”
The fisherman, having succeeded in
getting the last crab in the kettle of


50 Fisherman of Pass Christian
boiling water, came forward smiling and
began to explain the curios.
“ Then you have not always lived at
Pass Christian,” said Philip.
“ Mais non, monsieur, I am spend-
ing a summer here."
“And he spends his winters, doubt-
less, selling fish in the French market,”
spitefully soliloquised Philip.
The fisherman was looking unutter-
able things into Annette's eyes, and, it
seemed to Philip, taking an uncon-
scionably long time explaining the use
of an East Indian stiletto.
“Oh, would n't it be delightful!”
came from Annette at last.
“What?” asked Philip.
“Why, Monsieur LeConte says he'll
take six of us out in his catboat to-
morrow for a fishing-trip on the Gulf.”
“ Hum,” drily.
“And I'll get Natalie and her
cousins.”


Fisherman of Pass Christian 51
“Yes,” still more drily.
Annette chattered on, entirely ob-
livious of the strainedness of the men's
adieux, and still chattered as they drove
through the pines.
"I did not know that you were
going to take fishermen and marchands
into the bosom of your social set when
you came here,” growled Philip, at
last.
“ But, Cousin Phil, can't you see he
is a gentleman ? The fact that he
makes no excuses or protestations is a
proof.”
“You are a fool,” was the polite re-
sponse.
Still, at six o'clock next morning,
there was a little crowd of seven upon
the pier, laughing and chatting at the
little “Virginie” dipping her bows in the
water and flapping her sails in the brisk
wind. Natalie's pink bonnet blushed
in the early sunshine, and Natalie's


52 Fisherman of Pass Christian
ma
mamma, comely and portly, did chaper-
onage duty. It was not long before
the sails gave swell into the breeze and
the little boat scurried to the Sound.
Past the lighthouse on its gawky iron
stalls, she flew, and now rounded the
white sands of Cat Island.
“ Bravo, the Gulf !” sang a voice on
the lookout. The little boat dipped,
halted an instant, then rushed fast into
the blue Gulf waters.
“We will anchor here,” said the host,
“ have luncheon, and fish.”
Philip could not exactly understand
why the fisherman should sit so close
to Annette and whisper so much into
her ears. He chafed at her acting the
part of hostess, and was possessed of a
murderous desire to throw the pink
sun-bonnet and its owner into the sea,
when Natalie whispered audibly to one
of her cousins that “ Mees Annette act
nice wiť her lovare.”


Fisherman of Pass Christian 53
Sun was
The sun was banking up Alaming
pillars of rose and gold in the west
when the little“ Virginie ” rounded Cat
Island on her way home, and the quick
Southern twilight was fast dying into
darkness when she was tied up to the
pier and the merry-makers sprang off
with baskets of fish. Annette had dis-
tinguished herself by catching one small
shark, and had immediately ceased to
fish and devoted her attention to her
fisherman and his line. Philip had
angled fiercely, landing trout, croakers,
sheepshead, snappers in bewildering
luck. He had broken each hopeless
captive's neck savagely, as though they
were personal enemies. He did not
look happy as they landed, though
pæans of praise were being sung in his
honour.
As the days passed on, “ the fisher-
man of the Pass” began to dance
attendance on Annette. What had


54 Fisherman of Pass Christian
amma
un-
seemed a joke became serious. Aunt
Nina, urged by Philip, temonstrated,
and even the mamma of the pink sun-
bonnet began to look grave. It was
all very well for a city demoiselle to
talk with a fisherman and accept favours
at his hands, provided that the city
demoiselle understood that a vast and
bridgeless gulf stretched between her
and the fisherman. But when the
demoiselle forgot the gulf and the
fisherman refused to recognise it, why,
it was time to take matters in hand.
To all of Aunt Nina's remonstran-
ces, Philip's growlings, and the averted
glances of her companions, Annette
was deaf. “You are narrow-minded,”
she said laughingly. “I am interested
in Monsieur LeConte simply as a
study. He is entertaining; he talks
well of his travels, and as for refusing to
recognise the difference between us, why,
he never dreamed of such a thing."
eve


Fisherman of Pass Christian 55
Suddenly a peremptory summons
home from Annette's father put an end
to the fears of Philip. Annette pouted,
but papa must be obeyed. She blamed
Philip and Aunt Nina for telling tales,
but Aunt Nina was uncommunicative,
and Philip too obviously cheerful to
derive much satisfaction from
That night she walked with the
fisherman hand in hand on the sands.
The wind from the pines bore the
scarcely recognisable, subtle freshness
of early autumn, and the waters had a
hint of dying summer in their sob on
the beach.
“You will remember," said the fisher-
man, “ that I have told you nothing
about myself.”
“ Yes,” murmured Annette.
“ And you will keep your promises
to me?”
« Yes.”
“Let me hear you repeat them again.”


56 Fisherman of Pass Christian
nev
COL
vas
ron
“ I promise you that I will not for-
get you. I promise you that I will
never speak of you to anyone until I
see you again. I promise that I will
then clasp your hand wherever you
may be.”
“And mademoiselle will not be dis-
couraged, but will continue her studies?”
“ Yes.”
It was all very romantic, by the
waves of the Sound, under a harvest
moon, that seemed all sympathy for
these two, despite the fact that it was
probably looking down upon hundreds
of other equally romantic couples.
Annette went to bed with glowing
cheeks, and a heart whose pulsations
would have caused a physician to pre-
scribe unlimited digitalis.
It was still hot in New Orleans when
she returned home, and it seemed hard
to go immediately to work But if
one is going to be an opera-singer some


Fisherman of Pass Christian 57
day and capture the world with one's
voice, there is nothing to do but to
study, study, sing, practise, even though
one's throat be parched, one's head a
great ache, and one's heart a nest of
discouragement and sadness at what
seems the uselessness of it all. Annette
had now a new incentive to work; the
fisherman had once praised her voice
when she hummed a barcarole on the
sands, and he had insisted that there was
power in its rich notes. Though the
fisherman had showed no cause why he
should be accepted as a musical critic,
Annette had somehow respected his
judgment and been accordingly elated.
It was the night of the opening of
the opera. There was the usual crush,
the glitter and confusing radiance of
the brilliant audience. Annette, with
papa, Aunt Nina, and Philip, was late
reaching her box. The curtain was


60 Fisherman of Pass Christian
- cone.
was not well, you see. It has been of
great benefit to me.”
“I kept my promise,” she said in a
lower tone.
“ Thank you ; that also has helped
me.”
Annette's teacher began to note a
wonderful improvement in his pupil's
voice. Never did a girl study so hard
or practise so faithfully. It was truly
wonderful. Now and then Annette
would say to papa as if to reassure
herself, —
“And when Monsieur Cherbart says
I am ready to go to Paris, I may go,
papa ? ”
And papa would say a “Certainly ”
that would send her back to the piano
with renewed ardour.
As for Monsieur LeConte, he was
the idol of New Orleans. Seldom had
there been a tenor who had sung him-
self so completely into the very hearts


62 Fisherman of Pass Christian
than the fisherman Madame Dubeau
was La Juive to his Eleazar, Leonore
to his Manfred, Elsa to his Lohengrin,
Aida to his Rhadames, Marguerite to
his Faust; in brief, Madame Dubeau
was his opposite. She caressed him as
Mignon, pleaded with him as Michaela,
died for him in" Les Huguenots,” broke
her heart for love of him in “ La Favo-
rite.” How could he help but love
her, Annette asked herself, how could
he? Madame Dubeau was beautiful
and gifted and charming.
Once she whispered her fears to him
when there was the meagreșt bit of an
opportunity. He laughed. “You don't
understand, little one,” he said ten-
derly; “the relations of professional
people to each other are peculiar. After
you go to Paris, you will know.”
Still, New Orleans had built up its
romance, and gossiped accordingly.
“ Have you heard the news ? ” whis-


64 Fisherman of Pass Christian
little tired voice that was almost too
faint to be heard in the carriage on the
way home, said —
“Papa, I don't think I care to go
to Paris, after all.”


MʼSIEU FORTIER'S VIOLIN





M'SIEU FORTIER'S VIOLIN
re
Slowly, one by one, the lights in the
French Opera go out, until there is
but a single glimmer of pale yellow
flickering in the great dark space, a few.
moments ago all a-glitter with jewels and
the radiance of womanhood and a-clash
with music. Darkness now, and silence,
and a great haunted hush over all, save
for the distant cheery voice of a stage
hand humming a bar of the opera.
The glimmer of gas makes a halo
about the bowed white head of a little
old man putting his violin carefully
away in its case with aged, trembling,
nervous fingers. Old M'sieu Fortier
was the last one out every night.
Outside the air was murky, foggy.
Gas and electricity were but faint


68 M'sieu Fortier's Violin
splotches of light on the thick curtain
of fog and mist. Around the opera
was a mighty bustle of carriages and
drivers and footmen, with a car gaining
headway in the street now and then, a
howling of names and numbers, the
laughter and small talk of cloaked soci-
ety stepping slowly to its carriages, and
the more bourgeoisie vocalisation of the
foot passengers who streamed along and
hummed little bits of music. The fog's
denseness was confusing, too, and at one
moment it seemed that the little narrow
street would become inextricably choked
and remain so until some mighty engine
would blow the crowd into atoms. It
had been a crowded night. From
around Toulouse Street, where led the
entrance to the troisièmes, from the
grand stairway, from the entrance to
the quatrièmes, the human stream
poured into the street, nearly all with
a song on their lips.


M'sieu Fortier's Violin 69
Ca.
M'sieu Fortier stood at the corner,
blinking at the beautiful ladies in their
carriages. He exchanged a hearty salu-
tation with the saloon-keeper at the
corner, then, tenderly carrying his violin
case, he trudged down Bourbon Street,
a little old, bent, withered figure, with
shoulders shrugged up to keep warm, as
though the faded brown overcoat were
not thick enough.
Down on Bayou Road, not so far from
Claiborne Street, was a house, little and
old and queer, but quite large enough
to hold M'sieu Fortier, a wrinkled
dame, and a white cat. He was home
but little, for on nearly every day
there were rehearsals; then on Tues-
day, Thursday, and Saturday nights,
and twice Sundays there were perform-
ances, so Ma'am Jeanne and the white
cat kept house almost always alone.
Then, when M'sieu Fortier was at
home, why, it was practice, practice all
was


70 M'sieu Fortier's Violin
the day, and smoke, snore, sleep at night.
Altogether it was not very exhilarating.
M'sieu Fortier had played first violin
in the orchestra ever since — well, no
one remembered his not playing there.
Sometimes there would come breaks
in the seasons, and for a year the great
building would be dark and silent.
Then M'sieu Fortier would do jobs of
playing here and there, one night for this
ball, another night for that soirée dan-
sante, and in the day, work at his trade,
- that of a cigar-maker. But now for
seven years there had been no break in
the season, and the little old violinist
was happy. There is nothing sweeter
than a regular job and good music to
play, music into which one can put
some soul, some expression, and which
one must study to understand. Dance
music, of the frivolous, frothy kind
deemed essential to soirées, is trivial,
easy, uninteresting.


M'sieu Fortier's Violin 71
So M'sieu Fortier, Ma'am Jeanne,
and the white cat lived a peaceful, un-
eventful existence out on Bayou Road.
When the opera season was over in
February, M'sieu went back to cigar-
making, and the white cat purred none
the less contentedly.
It had been a benefit to-night for
the leading tenor, and he had chosen
“Roland à Ronceveaux,” a favourite
this season, for his farewell. And, mon
Dieu, mused the little M'sieu, but how
his voice had rung out bell-like, piercing
above the chorus of the first act! En-
core after encore was given, and the
bravos of the troisièmes were enough
to stir the most sluggish of pulses.
“Superbes Pyrenées
Qui dressez dans le ciel,
Vos cimes couronnées
D'un hiver éternelle,
Pour nous livrer passage
Ouvrez vos larges flancs,
Faîtes taire l'orage,
Voici, venir les Francs !”


72 M'sieu Fortier's Violin
M'sieu quickened his pace down
Bourbon Street as he sang the chorus
to himself in a thin old voice, and then,
before he could see in the thick fog,
he had run into two young men.
“1-1— beg your pardon, -mes-
sieurs,” he stammered.
“Most certainly,” was the careless
response; then the speaker, taking a
second glance at the object of the ren-
contre, cried joyfully:
“Oh, M'sieu Fortier, is it you?
Why, you are so happy, singing your
love sonnet to your lady's eyebrow, that
you did n't see a thing but the moon,
did you? And who is the fair one
who should clog your senses so?”
There was a deprecating shrug from
the little man.
“ Ma foi, but monsieur must know
fo' sho', dat I am too old for love
songs !”
“I know nothing save that I want


74 M'sieu Fortier's Violin
OV
the rest of these nineteenth-century
vandals, you can see nothing pictur-
esque that you do not wish to deface
for a souvenir; you cannot even let
simple happiness alone, but must
needs destroy it in a vain attempt to
make it your own or parade it as an
advertisement."
As for M'sieu Fortier, he went right
on with his song and turned into Bayou
Road, his shoulders still shrugged high
as though he were cold, and into the
quaint little house, where Ma'am Jeanne
and the white cat, who always waited up
for him at nights, were both nodding
over the fire.
It was not long after this that the
opera closed, and M'sieu went back to
his old out-of-season job. But some-
how he did not do as well this spring
and summer as always. There is a cer-
tain amount of cunning and finesse
required to roll a cigar just so, that


M'sieu Fortier's Violin 75
M'sieu seemed to be losing, whether
from age or deterioration it was hard
to tell. Nevertheless, there was just
about half as much money coming in
as formerly, and the quaint little pucker
between M'sieu's eyebrows which served
for a frown came oftener and stayed
longer than ever before.
“Minesse,” he said one day to the
white cat, — he told all his troubles
to her; it was of no use to talk to
Ma'am Jeanne, she was too deaf to
understand, —“Minesse, we are get-
tin' po'. You' père git h’old, an' hees
han's dey go no mo' rapidement, an'
dere be no mo' soirées dese day.
Minesse, eef la saison don' hurry up,
we shall eat ver' lil' meat."
And Minesse curled her tail and
purred.
Before the summer had fairly begun,
strange rumours began to float about in
musical circles. M. Maugé would no


76 M'sieu Fortier's Violin
longer manage the opera, but it would
be turned into the hands of Americans,
a syndicate. Bah! These English-
speaking people could do nothing un-
less there was a trust, a syndicate, a
company immense and dishonest. It
was going to be a guarantee business,
with a strictly financial basis. But
worse than all this, the new manager,
who was now in France, would not
only procure the artists, but a new
orchestra, a new leader. M'sieu For-
tier grew apprehensive at this, for he
knew what the loss of his place would
mean to him.
September and October came, and
the papers were filled with accounts of
the new artists from France and of the
new orchestra leader too. He was
described as a most talented, progres-
sive, energetic young man. M'sieu
Fortier's heart sank at the word “ pro-
gressive.” He was anything but that.


78 M'sieu Fortier's Violin
taunts the good boys within. M'sieu
Fortier was no exception. Night after
night of the performances he climbed
the stairs of the opera and sat, an atten-
tive listener to the orchestra, with one
ear inclined to the stage, and a quizzi-
cal expression on his wrinkled face,
Then he would go home, and pat
Minesse, and fondle the violin.
“Ah, Minesse, dose new player!
Not one bit can dey play. Such tones,
Minesse, such tones! All the time
portemento, oh, so ver' bad! Ah, mon
chere violon, we can play." And he
would play and sing a romance, and
smile tenderly to himself.
At first it used to be into the deux-
ièmes that M'sieu Fortier went, into
the front seats. But soon they were
too expensive, and after all, one could
hear just as well in the fourth row as in
the first. After a while even the rear
row of the deuxièmes was too costly,


M'sieu Fortier's Violin 79
and the little musician wended his way
with the plebeians around on Toulouse
Street, and climbed the long, tedious
flight of stairs into the troisièmes. It
makes no difference to be one row
higher. It was more to the liking, after
all. One felt more at home up here
among the people. If one was thirsty,
one could drink a glass of wine or beer
being passed about by the libretto boys,
and the music sounded just as well.
But it happened one night that
M'sieu could not even afford to climb
the Toulouse Street stairs. To be sure,
there was yet another gallery, the quatri-
èmes, where the peanut boys went for a
dime, but M'sieu could not get down to
that yet. So he stayed outside until all
the beautiful women in their warm
wraps, a bright-hued chattering throng,
came down the grand staircase to their
carriages.
It was on one of these nights that


80 M'sieu Fortier's Violin
Courcey and Martel found him shiver-
ing at the corner.
i “Hello, M'sieu Fortier,” cried
Courcey, “are you ready to let me
have that violin yet?”
“For shame!” interrupted Martel.
“Fifty dollars, you know,” con-
tinued Courcey, taking no heed of his
friend's interpolation.
M'sieu Fortier made a courtly bow.
“Eef Monsieur will call at my 'ouse
on de morrow, he may have mon vio-
lon,” he said huskily; then turned
abruptly on his heel, and went down
Bourbon Street, his shoulders drawn
high as though he were cold.
When Courcey and Martel entered
the gate of the little house on Bayou
Road the next day, there floated out
to their ears a wordless song thrilling
from the violin, a song that told more
than speech or tears or gestures could
have done of the utter sorrow and


M'sieu Fortier's Violin 81
desolation of the little old man. They
- walked softly up the short red brick
walk and tapped at the door. Within,
M'sieu Fortier was caressing the vio-
lin, with silent tears streaming down
his wrinkled gray face.
There was not much said on either
side. Courcey came away with the
instrument, leaving the money behind,
while Martel grumbled at the essentially
sordid, mercenary spirit of the world.
M'sieu Fortier turned back into the room,
after bowing his visitors out with old-
time French courtliness, and turning to
the sleepy white cat, said with a dry sob:
"Minesse, dere's only me an' you
now.”
About six days later, Courcey's
morning dreams were disturbed by the
announcement of a visitor. Hastily
doing a toilet, he descended the stairs
to find M'sieu Fortier nervously pac-
ing the hall floor.


82 M'sieu Fortier's Violin
“I come fo’ bring back you' money,
yaas. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I
only cry, and t'ink, and weesh fo'mon
violon; and Minesse, an' de ol woman
too, dey mope an’ look bad too, all for
mon violon. I try fo’ to use dat
money, but eet burn an' sting lak blood
money. I feel lak' I done soľ my
child. I cannot go at l'opera no mo',
I t’ink of mon violon. I starve befo' I
live widout. My heart, he is broke, I
die for mon violon.”
Courcey left the room and returned
with the instrument.
“ M'sieu Fortier,” he said, bowing
low, as he handed the case to the little
man, “take your violin; it was a whim
with me, a passion with you. And as
for the money, why, keep that too ; it
was worth a hundred dollars to have
possessed such an instrument even for
six days.”


BY THE BAYOU ST. JOHN





BY THE BAYOU ST. JOHN
The Bayou St. John slowly makes its
dark-hued way through reeds and
rushes, high banks and flat slopes, until
it casts itself into the turbulent bosom
of Lake Pontchartrain. It is dark,
like the passionate women of Egypt;
placid, like their broad brows; deep,
silent, like their souls. Within its
bosom are hidden romances and stories,
such as were sung by minstrels of old.
From the source to the mouth is not
far distant, visibly speaking, but in the
life of the bayou a hundred heart-miles
could scarce measure it. Just where
it winds about the northwest of the
city are some of its most beautiful bits,
orange groves on one side, and quaint
old Spanish gardens on the other.


86 By the Bayou St. John
ses
Who cares that the bridges are modern,
and that here and there pert boat-houses
rear their prim heads ? It is the bayou,
even though it be invaded with the
ruthless vandalism of the improving
idea, and can a boat-house kill the
beauty of a moss-grown centurion of an
oak with a history as old as the city ?
Can an iron bridge with tarantula piers
detract from the song of a mocking-
bird in a fragrant orange grove? We
know that farther out, past the Con-
federate Soldiers' Home, – that rose-
embowered, rambling place of gray-
coated, white-haired old men with
broken hearts for a lost cause, - it
flows, unimpeded by the faintest con-
ception of man, and we love it all the
more that, like the Priestess of Isis, it is
calm-browed, even in indignity.
To its banks at the end of Moss
Street, one day there came a man and a
maiden. They were both tall and


By the Bayou St. John 87
lithe and slender, with the agility of
youth and fire. He was the final con-
centration of the essence of Spanish
passion filtered into an American
frame; she, a repressed Southern exotic,
trying to fit itself into the niches of a
modern civilisation. Truly, a fitting
couple to seek the bayou banks.
They climbed the levee that stretched
a feeble check to waters that seldom
rise, and on the other side of the
embankment, at the brink of the river,
she sat on a log, and impatiently pulled
off the little cap she wore. The skies
were gray, heavy, overcast, with an
occasional wind-rift in the clouds that
only revealed new depths of grayness
behind; the tideless waters murmured
a faint ripple against the logs and jut-
ting beams of the breakwater, and were
answered by the crescendo wail of the
dried reeds on the other bank, - reeds
that rustled and moaned among them-


88 By the Bayou St. John
selves for the golden days of summer
sunshine.
He stood up, his dark form a slender
silhouette against the sky; she looked
upward from her log, and their eyes
met with an exquisite shock of recog-
nising understanding ; dark eyes into
dark eyes, Iberian fire into Iberian fire,
soul unto soul : it was enough. He
sat down and took her into his arms,
and in the eerie murmur of the storm
coming they talked of the future.
“And then I hope to go to Italy or
France. It is only there, beneath those
far Southern skies, that I could ever
hope to attain to anything that the soul
within me says I can. I have wasted
so much time in the mere struggle for
bread, while the powers of a higher
calling have clamoured for recognition
and expression. I will go some day
and redeem myself.”
She was silent a moment, watching


By the Bayou St. John 89
with half-closed lids a dejected-looking
hunter on the other bank, and a lean
dog who trailed through the reeds
behind him with drooping tail. Then
she asked:
“And I — what will become of me?”
“You, Athanasia ? There is a great
future before you, little woman, and I
and my love can only mar it. Try to
forget me and go your way. I am only
the epitome of unhappiness and ill-
success.”
But she laughed and would have
none of it.
Will you ever forget that day, Atha-
nasia ? How the little gamins, Creole
throughout, came half shyly near the
log, fishing, and exchanging furtive
whispers and half-concealed glances at
the silent couple. Their angling was
rewarded only by a little black water-
moccasin that wriggled and forked its
venomous red tongue in an attempt to
rew
venoi nou


By the Bayou St. John 91
ness
a night years after, the moon was shin-
ing upon it with a silvery tenderness
that seemed brighter, more caressingly
lingering than anywhere within the old
city. Behind, there rose the spires and
towers; before, only the reeds, green
now, and soft in their rustlings and
whisperings for the future. False reeds!
They tell themselves of their happiness
to be, and it all ends in dry stalks and
drizzling skies. The mocking-bird in
the fragrant orange grove sends out his
night song, and blends it with the
cricket's chirp, as the blossoms of
orange and magnolia mingle their per-
fume with the earthy smell of a summer
rain just blown over. Perfect in its
stillness, absolute in its beauty, tenderly
healing in its suggestion of peace, the
night in its clear-lighted, cloudless sweet-
ness enfolds Athanasia, as she stands on
the levee and gazes down at the old log,
now almost hidden in the luxuriant grass.
ra


92 By the Bayou St. John
“ It was the eternal feminine that
spoiled our dream that day as it spoiled
the after life, was it not?”
But the Bayou St. John did not
answer. It merely gathered into its
silent bosom another broken-hearted
romance, and flowed dispassionately on
its way.


WHEN THE BAYOU
OVERFLOWS





WHEN THE BAYOU
OVERFLOWS
When the sun goes down behind the
great oaks along the Bayou Teche near
Franklin, it throws red needles of light
into the dark woods, and leaves a great
glow on the still bayou. Ma'am
Mouton paused at her gate and cast a
contemplative look at the red sky.
“Hit will rain to-morrow, sho'. I
mus' git in my t’ings.”
Ma'am Mouton's remark must have
been addressed to herself or to the lean
dog, for no one else was visible. She
moved briskly about the yard, taking
things from the line, when Louisette's
voice called cheerily :
“Ah, Ma'am Mouton, can I help?”
Louisette was petite and plump and


96 When the Bayou Overflows
black-haired. Louisette's eyes danced,
and her lips were red and tempting.
Ma'am Mouton's face relaxed as the
small brown hands relieved hers of
their burden.
“Sylves', has he come yet?” asked
the red mouth.
“Mais non, ma chère,” said Ma'am
Mouton, sadly, “I can'tell fo' w’y he
no come home soon dese day. Ah
me, I feel lak' somet'ing goin' happen.
He so strange.”
Even as she spoke a quick nervous
step was heard crunching up the brick
walk. Sylves' paused an instant with-
out the kitchen door, his face turned
to the setting sun. He was tall and
slim and agile; a true 'cajan.
“Bon jour, Louisette,” he laughed.
“Eh, maman !”
“Ah, my son, you are ver' late.”
Sylves frowned, but said nothing.
It was a silent supper that followed.


When the Bayou Overflows 97
was
Louisette was sad, Ma'am Mouton
sighed now and then, Sylves' was
constrained.
“Maman,” he said at length, “I am
goin' away.”
Ma'am Mouton dropped her fork
and stared at him with unseeing eyes;
then, as she comprehended his remark,
she put her hand out to him with a
pitiful gesture.
“Sylves’ !” cried Louisette, spring-
ing to her feet.
“Maman, don't, don't!” he said
weakly; then gathering strength from
the silence, he burst forth :
“Yaas, I'm goin' away to work.
I'm tired of dis, jus' dig, dig, work
in de fieľ, nothin' to see but de cloud,
de tree, de bayou. I don't lak' New
Orleans; it too near here, dere no mo'
money dere. I go up fo' Mardi Gras,
an' de same people, de same striť.
I 'm goin' to Chicago ! ”


98 When the Bayou Overflows
“Sylves' !” screamed both women
at once.
Chicago ! That vast, far-off city
that seemed in another world. Chicago !
A name to conjure with for wickedness.
“W'y, yaas,” continued Sylves',
“lots of boys I know dere. Henri
an' Joseph Lascaud an' Arthur, dey
write me what money dey mek'in
cigar. I can mek' a livin' too. I
can mek' fine cigar. See how I do in
New Orleans in de winter."
“Oh, Sylves'," wailed Louisette,
“den you ’ll forget me!”
“Non, non, ma chère,” he answered
tenderly. “I will come back when the
bayou overflows again, an'maman an'
Louisette will have fine present.”
Ma'am Mouton had bowed her head
on her hands, and was rocking to and
fro in an agony of dry-eyed misery.
Sylves' went to her side and knelt.
“ Maman,” he said softly, “maman,


When the Bayou Overflows 99
you mus' not cry. All de boys go
'way, an' I will come back reech, an'
you won't have fo' to work no mo'.”
But Ma'am Mouton was incon-
solable.
It was even as Sylves' had said.
In the summer-time the boys of the
Bayou Teche would work in the field
or in the town of Franklin, hack-driv-
ing and doing odd jobs. When winter
came, there was a general exodus to
New Orleans, a hundred miles away,
where work was to be had as cigar-
makers. There is money, plenty of it,
in cigar-making, if one can get in the
right place. Of late, however, there
had been a general slackness of the
trade. Last winter oftentimes Sylves'
had walked the streets out of work.
Many were the Creole boys who had
gone to Chicago to earn a living, for
the cigar-making trade flourishes there
wonderfully. Friends of Sylves' had


100 When the Bayou Overflows
gone, and written home glowing accounts
of the money to be had almost for the
asking. When one's blood leaps for
new scenes, new adventures, and one
needs money, what is the use of fritter-
ing away time alternately between the
Bayou Teche and New Orleans? Sylves'
had brooded all summer, and now that
September had come, he was determined
to go.
Louisette, the orphan, the girl-lover,
whom everyone in Franklin knew
would some day be Ma'am Mouton's
daughter-in-law, wept and pleaded in
vain. Sylves' kissed her quivering
lips.
“Ma chère,” he would say, “ tink,
I will bring you one fine diamon' ring,
nex' spring, when de bayou overflows
again.”
Louisette would fain be content with
this promise. As for Ma'am Mouton,
she seemed to have grown ages older.


When the Bayou Overflows 101
I
Her Sylves' was going from her; Sylves',
whose trips to New Orleans had been
a yearly source of heart-break, was
going far away for months to that
mistily wicked city, a thousand miles
away.
October came, and Sylves' had gone.
Ma'am Mouton had kept up bravely
until the last, when with one final cry
she extended her arms to the pitiless
train bearing him northward. Then
she and Louisette went home drearily,
the one leaning upon the other.
Ah, that was a great day when the
first letter came from Chicago! Lou-
isette came running in breathlessly from
the post-office, and together they read
it again and again. Chicago was such
a wonderful city, said Sylves'. Why,
it was always like New Orleans at
Mardi Gras with the people. He had
seen Joseph Lascaud, and he had a
place to work promised him. He was


102 When the Bayou Overflows
well, but he wanted, oh, so much, to
see maman and Louisette. But then,
he could wait.
Was ever such a wonderful letter?
Louisette sat for an hour afterwards
building gorgeous air-castles, while
Ma'am Mouton fingered the paper
and murmured prayers to the Virgin
for Sylves'. When the bayou over-
flowed again? That would be in April.
Then Louisette caught herself looking
critically at her slender brown fingers,
and blushed furiously, though Ma'am
Mouton could not see her in the
gathering twilight.
Next week there was another letter,
even more wonderful than the first.
Sylves' had found work. He was mak-
ing cigars, and was earning two dollars
a day. Such wages ! Ma'am Mouton
and Louisette began to plan pretty
things for the brown cottage on the
Teche.


When the Bayou Overflows 103
as n
That was a pleasant winter, after all.
True, there was no Sylves', but then
he was always in New Orleans for a few
months any way. There were his let-
ters, full of wondrous tales of the great
queer city, where cars went by ropes
underground, and where there was no
Mardi Gras and the people did not
mind Lent. Now and then there
would be a present, a keepsake for
Louisette, and some money for maman.
They would plan improvements for the
cottage, and Louisette began to do sew-
ing and dainty crochet, which she would
hide with a blush if anyone hinted at a
trousseau.
It was March now, and Spring-time.
The bayou began to sweep down be-
tween its banks less sluggishly than
before; it was rising, and soon would
spread over its tiny levees. The doors
could be left open now, though the
trees were not yet green; but then


104 When the Bayou Overflows
down here the trees do not swell and
bud slowly and tease you for weeks
with promises of greenness. Dear no,
they simply look mysterious, and their
twigs shake against each other and tell
secrets of the leaves that will soon be
born. Then one morning you awake,
and lo, it is a green world! The
boughs have suddenly clothed them-
selves all in a wondrous garment, and
you feel the blood run riot in your
veins out of pure sympathy.
One day in March, it was warm and
sweet. Underfoot were violets; and
wee white star flowers peering through
the baby-grass. The sky was blue,
with flecks of white clouds reflecting
themselves in the brown bayou.
Louisette tripped up the red brick
walk with the Chicago letter in her
hand, and paused a minute at the door
to look upon the leaping waters, her
eyes dancing





MR. BAPTISTE


TER


112 Mr. Baptiste
Man, he had nowhere to lay his head,
save when some kindly family made
room for him in a garret or a barn.
He subsisted by doing odd jobs, white-
washing, cleaning yards, doing errands,
and the like.
The little old man was a frequenter of
the levee. Never a day passed that his
quaint little figure was not seen moving
up and down about the ships. Chiefly
did he haunt the Texas and Pacific
warehouses and the landing-place of the
Morgan-line steamships. This seemed
like madness, for these spots are almost
the busiest on the levee, and the rough
seamen and 'longshoremen have least
time to be bothered with small weak
folks. Still there was method in the
madness of Mr. Baptiste. The Morgan
steamships, as everyone knows, ply
between New Orleans and Central and
South American ports, doing the major
part of the fruit trade; and many were


114 Mr. Baptiste
tempting dish, with a bit of madame's
bread and meat and coffee thrown in
for lagniappe; and Mr. Baptiste would
depart, filled and contented, leaving the
load of fruit behind as madame's pay.
Thus did he eat, and his clients were
many, and never too tired or too cross
to cook his meals and get their pay in
baskets of fruit.
One day he slipped in at Madame
Garcia's kitchen door with such a woe-
begone air, and slid a small sack of
nearly ripe plantains on the table with
such a misery-laden sigh, that madame,
who was fat and excitable, threw up
both hands and cried out:
“Mon Dieu, Mistare Baptiste, fo'
w'y you look lak dat? What ees de
mattare?”
For answer, Mr. Baptiste shook
his head gloomily and sighed again.
Madame Garcia moved heavily about
the kitchen, putting the plantains in
1
was
W
.


Mr. Baptiste 115
a cool spot and punctuating her foot-
steps with sundry “Mon Dieux” and
“ Misères.”
“Dose cotton!” ejaculated Mr. Bap-
tiste, at last.
“Ah, mon Dieu !” groaned Madame
Garcia, rolling her eyes heavenwards.
“Hit will drive de fruit away !” he
continued.
“ Misère!” said Madame Garcia.
“ Hit will.”
« Oui, oui,” said Madame Garcia.
She had carefully inspected the plan-
tains, and seeing that they were good
and wholesome, was inclined to agree
with anything Mr. Baptiste said.
He grew excited. “Yaas, dose cotton-
yardmans, dose 'longsho'mans, dey go
out on one strik'. Dey t'row down
dey tool an' say dey work no mo' wid
niggers. Les veseaux, dey lay in de
river, no work, no cargo, yaas. Den
de fruit ship, dey can mak' lan', de


Mr. Baptiste 117
from its yellow bosom. Great vessels
lay against the wharf, silent and un-
populated. Excited groups of men
clustered here and there among bales of
uncompressed cotton, lying about in
disorderly profusion. Cargoes of mo-
lasses and sugar gave out a sticky sweet
smell, and now and then the fierce rays
of the sun would kindle tiny blazes
in the cotton and splinter-mixed dust
underfoot.
Mr. Baptiste wandered in and out
among the groups of men, exchanging a
friendly salutation here and there. He
looked the picture of woe-begone
misery.
“Hello, Mr. Baptiste,” cried a big,
brawny Irishman, “sure an' you look,
as if you was about to be hanged.”
“Ah, mon Dieu,” said Mr. Baptiste,
“ dose fruit ship be ruined fo’ dees
strik”.”
“Damn the fruit!” cheerily replied


118 Mr. Baptiste
the Irishman, artistically disposing of a
mouthful of tobacco juice. “ It ain't
the fruit we care about, it 's the cotton.”
“Hear! hear!” cried a dozen lusty
comrades.
Mr. Baptiste shook his head and
moved sorrowfully away.
“Hey, by howly St. Patrick, here's
that little fruit-eater ! ” called the cen-
tre of another group of strikers perched
on cotton-bales.
“Hello! Where —” began a sec-
ond; but the leader suddenly held up his
hand for silence, and the men listened
eagerly.
It might not have been a sound, for
the levee lay quiet and the mules on
the cotton-drays dozed languidly, their
ears pitched at varying acute angles.
But the pract:sed ears of the men heard
a familiar sound stealing up over the
heated stillness.
“Oh-ho-ho-humph— humph


Mr. Baptiste 119
– humph — ho-ho-ho-oh-0
-0— humph!”
Then the faint rattle of chains, and
the steady thump of a machine
pounding.
If ever you go on the levee you'll
know that sound, the rhythmic song
of the stevedores heaving cotton-bales,
and the steady thump, thump, of the
machine compressing them within the
hold of the ship.
Finnegan, the leader, who had held
up his hand for silence, uttered an
oath.
“Scabs! Men, come on!”
There was no need for a further in-
vitation. The men rose in sullen
wrath and went down the levee, the
crowd gathering in numbers as it
passed along. Mr. Baptiste followed
in its wake, now and then sighing a
mournful protest which was lost in the
roar of the men.


120 Mr. Baptiste
“Scabs!” Finnegan had said; and
the word was passed along, until it
seemed that the half of the second Dis-
trict knew and had risen to investigate.
“Oh-ho-ho-humph — humph
- humph — oh — ho-ho -oh-o
-0-humph !”
The rhythmic chorus sounded nearer,
and the cause manifested itself when the
curve of the levee above the French
Market was passed. There rose a
White Star steamer, insolently settling
itself to the water as each consignment
of cotton bales was compressed into her
hold.
“Niggers!” roared Finnegan wrathily.
“Niggers! niggers! Kill’em, scabs !”
chorused the crowd.
With muscles standing out like
cables through their blue cotton shirts,
and sweat rolling from glossy black
skins, the Negro stevedores were at work
steadily labouring at the cotton, with the


Mr. Baptiste 121
rhythmic song swinging its cadence in
the hot air. The roar of the crowd
caused the men to look up with mo-
mentary apprehension, but at the over-
seer's reassuring word they bent back
to work.
Finnegan was a Titan. With livid
face and bursting veins he ran into the
street facing the French Market, and
uprooted a huge block of paving
stone. Staggering under its weight, he
rushed back to the ship, and with one
mighty effort hurled it into the hold.
The delicate poles of the costly
machine tottered in the air, then fell
forward with a crash as the whole iron
framework in the hold collapsed.
“Damn ye,” shouted Finnegan,
“now yez can pack yer cotton!”.
The crowd's cheers at this changed
to howls, as the Negroes, infuriated at
their loss, for those costly machines
belong to the labourers and not to the


122 . Mr. Baptiste
ship-owners, turned upon the mob and
began to throw brickbats, pieces of
iron, chunks of wood, anything that
came to hand. It was pandemonium
turned loose over a turgid stream, with
a malarial sun to heat the passions to
fever point.
Mr. Baptiste had taken refuge behind
a bread-stall on the outside of the mar-
ket. He had taken off his cap, and
was weakly cheering the Negroes on.
“Bravo! cheered Mr. Baptiste.
“Will yez look at that damned fruit-
eatin' Frinchman!” howled McMahon.
“ Cheerin' the niggers, are you?” and
he let fly a brickbat in the direction of
the bread-stall.
“Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu !” wailed
the bread-woman.
Mr. Baptiste lay very still, with a
great ugly gash in his wrinkled brown
temple. Fishmen and vegetable mar-
chands gathered around him in a quick,


Mr. Baptiste 123
ar
wa
ars
sympathetic mass. The individual, the
concrete bit of helpless humanity, had
more interest for them than the vast,
vague fighting mob beyond.
The noon-hour pealed from the
brazen throats of many bells, and the
numerous hoarse whistles of the steam-
boats called the unheeded luncheon-
time to the levee workers. The war
waged furiously, and groans of the
wounded mingled with curses and roars
from the combatants.
“Killed instantly,” said the surgeon,
carefully lifting Mr. Baptiste into the
ambulance.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, sounded the
militia steadily marching down Decatur
Street.
“Whist! do yez hear !” shouted
Finnegan; and the conflict had ceased
ere the yellow river could reflect the
sun from the polished bayonets.
You remember, of course, how long


124 Mr. Baptiste
the strike lasted, and how many battles
were fought and lives lost before the
final adjustment of affairs. It was a
fearsome war, and many forgot after-
wards whose was the first life lost in
the struggle,-poor little Mr. Baptiste's,
whose body lay at the Morgue un-
claimed for days before it was finally
dropped unnamed into Potter's Field.


A CARNIVAL JANGLE





A CARNIVAL JANGLE
There is a merry jangle of bells in the
air, an all-pervading sense of jester's
noise, and the flaunting vividness of
royal colours. The streets swarm with
humanity, — humanity in all shapes,
manners, forms, laughing, pushing,
jostling, crowding, a mass of men and
women and children, as varied and as-
sorted in their several individual pecu-
liarities as ever a crowd that gathered
in one locality since the days of Babel.
It is Carnival in New Orleans; a
brilliant Tuesday in February, when
the very air gives forth an ozone in-
tensely exhilarating, making one long
to cut capers. The buildings are a
blazing mass of royal purple and golden
yellow, national flags, bunting, and deco-


A Carnival Jangle 129
from each other's paths. But in the
confusion a tall Prince of Darkness had
whispered to one of the girls in the un-
masked crowd: “You'd better come
with us, Flo; you're wasting time in
that tame gang. Slip off, they 'll never
miss you; we'll get you a rig, and show
you what life is.”
And so it happened, when a half-
hour passed, and the bright-eyed bevy
missed Flo and could n't find her, wisely
giving up the search at last, she, the
quietest and most bashful of the lot,
was being initiated into the mysteries
of “what life is.”
Down Bourbon Street and on Tou-
louse and St. Peter Streets there are
quaint little old-world places where one
may be disguised effectually for a tiny
consideration. Thither, guided by the
shapely Mephisto and guarded by the
team of jockeys and ballet girls, tripped
Flo. Into one of the lowest-ceiled,


130 A Carnival Jangle
dingiest, and most ancient-looking of
these shops they stepped.
“A disguise for the demoiselle," an-
nounced Mephisto to the woman who
met them. She was small and wizened
and old, with yellow, flabby jaws, a
neck like the throat of an alligator, and
straight, white hair that stood from her
head uncannily stiff.
“ But the demoiselle wishes to ap-
pear a boy, un petit garçon?” she in-
quired, gazing eagerly at Flo's long,
slender frame. Her voice was old and
thin, like the high quavering of an
imperfect tuning-fork, and her eyes
were sharp as talons in their grasping
glance.
“Mademoiselle does not wish such a
costume,” gruffly responded Mephisto.
“Ma foi, there is no other,” said
the ancient, shrugging her shoulders.
“But one is left now; mademoiselle
would make a fine troubadour.”


A Carnival Jangle 133
masked. It was amusing to watch
these mimic Red-men, they seemed so
fierce and earnest.
Suddenly one chief touched another
on the elbow. “ See that Mephisto
and troubadour over there?” he whis-
pered huskily.
“Yes; who are they?”
“I don't know the devil,” responded
the other, quietly,“ but I'd know that
other form anywhere. It's Leon, see?
I know those white hands like a woman's
and that restless head. Ha!”
“But there may be a mistake.”
“No. I'd know that one anywhere;
I feel it is he. I'll pay him now. Ah,
sweetheart, you've waited long, but
you shall feast now!” He was caress-
ing something long and lithe and glit-
tering beneath his blanket.
In a masked dance it is easy to give
a death-blow between the shoulders.
Two crowds meet and laugh and shout
een


LITTLE MISS SOPHIE


LITTLE MISS SOPHIE
When Miss Sophie knew conscious-
ness again, the long, faint, swelling
notes of the organ were dying away in
distant echoes through the great arches
of the silent church, and she was alone,
crouching in a little, forsaken black
heap at the altar of the Virgin. The
twinkling tapers shone pityingly upon
her, the beneficent smile of the white-
robed Madonna seemed to whisper
comfort. A long gust of chill air swept
up the aisles, and Miss Sophie shivered
not from cold, but from nervousness.
But darkness was falling, and soon
the lights would be lowered, and the
great massive doors would be closed; so,
gathering her thin little cape about her
frail shoulders, Miss Sophie hurried


138 Little Miss Sophie
out, and along the brilliant noisy streets
home.
It was a wretched, lonely little room,
where the cracks let the boisterous
wind whistle through, and the smoky,
grimy walls looked cheerless and un-
homelike. A miserable little room in a
miserable little cottage in one of the
squalid streets of the Third District
that nature and the city fathers seemed
to have forgotten.
As bare and comfortless as the
room was Miss Sophie's life. She
rented these four walls from an un-
kempt little Creole woman, whose
progeny seemed like the promised
offspring of Abraham. She scarcely
kept the flickering life in her pale
little body by the unceasing toil of a
pair of bony hands, stitching, stitching,
ceaselessly, wearingly, on the bands and
pockets of trousers. It was her bread,
this monotonous, unending work; and


Little Miss Sophie 139
though whole days and nights constant
labour brought but the most meagre rec-
ompense, it was her only hope of life.
She sat before the little charcoal bra-
zier and warmed her transparent,
needle-pricked fingers, thinking mean-
while of the strange events of the day.
She had been up town to carry the great,
black bundle of coarse pants and vests
to the factory and to receive her small
pittance, and on the way home stopped
in at the Jesuit Church to say her little
prayer at the altar of the calm white
Virgin. There had been a wondrous
burst of music from the great organ as
she knelt there, an overpowering per-
fume of many flowers, the glittering
dazzle of many lights, and the dainty
frou-frou made by the silken skirts of
wedding guests. So Miss Sophie stayed
to the wedding; for what feminine
heart, be it ever so old and seared,
does not delight in one? And why


140 Little Miss Sophie
should not a poor little Creole old
maid be interested too?
Then the wedding party had filed
in solemnly, to the rolling, swelling
tones of the organ. Important-look-
ing groomsmen ; dainty, fluffy, white-
robed maids ; stately, satin-robed, illu-
sion-veiled bride, and happy groom.
She leaned forward to catch a better
glimpse of their faces. “Ah!”-
Those near the Virgin's altar who
heard a faint sigh and rustle on the
steps glanced curiously as they saw a
slight black-robed figure clutch the
railing and lean her head against it.
Miss Sophie had fainted.
“I must have been hungry,” she
mused over the charcoal fire in her
little room,“I must have been hungry;"
and she smiled a wan smile, and busied
herself getting her evening meal of coffee
and bread and ham.
If one were given to pity, the first


Little Miss Sophie 141
thought that would rush to one's lips
at sight of Miss Sophie would have
been, “Poor little woman!” She had
come among the bareness and sordid-
ness of this neighbourhood five years
ago, robed in crape, and crying with
great sobs that seemed to shake the
vitality out of her. Perfectly silent, too,
she was about her former life; but for
all that, Michel, the quartee grocer at
the corner, and Madame Laurent, who
kept the rabbé shop opposite, had fixed it
all up between them, of her sad history
and past glories. Not that they knew;
but then Michel must invent something
when the neighbours came to him as
their fountain-head of wisdom.
One morning little Miss Sophie
opened wide her dingy windows to
catch the early freshness of the autumn
wind as it whistled through the yellow-
leafed trees. It was one of those calm,
blue-misted, balmy, November days


Little Miss Sophie 143
all of the endless number of jeans belts.
Her fingers trembled with nervous haste
as she pinned up the unwieldy black
bundle of finished work, and her feet
fairly tripped over each other in their
eagerness to get to Claiborne Street,
where she could board the up-town car.
There was a feverish desire to go some-
where, a sense of elation, a foolish
happiness that brought a faint echo of
colour into her pinched cheeks. She
wondered why.
No one noticed her in the car. Pas-
sengers on the Claiborne line are too
much accustomed to frail little black-
robed women with big, black bundles;
it is one of the city's most pitiful sights.
She leaned her head out of the win-
dow to catch a glimpse of the oleanders
on Bayou Road, when her attention
was caught by a conversation in the
car.
“Yes, it's too bad for Neale, and


Little Miss Sophie 145
has given the ring away, and that settles
it.”
“Well, you're all chumps. Why
does n't he get the ring from the
owner?”
“Easily said; but it seems that
Neale had some little Creole love-affair
some years ago, and gave this ring to
his dusky-eyed fiancée. You know how
Neale is with his love-affairs, went off
and forgot the girl in a month. It
seems, however, she took it to heart, -
so much so that he's ashamed to try
to find her or the ring.”
Miss Sophie heard no more as she
gazed out into the dusty grass. There
were tears in her eyes, hot blinding
ones that would n't drop for pride, but
stayed and scalded. She knew the
story, with all its embellishment of
heartaches. She knew the ring, too.
She remembered the day she had kissed
and wept and fondled it, until it seemed
IO


148 Little Miss Sophie
Titiche, the busybody of the house,
noticed that Miss Sophie's bundle was
larger than usual that afternoon. “Ah,
poor woman!” sighed Titiche's mother,
“she would be rich for Christmas."
The bundle grew larger each day, and
Miss Sophie grew smaller. The damp,
cold rain and mist closed the white-
curtained window, but always there
behind the sewing-machine drooped
and bobbed the little black-robed figure.
Whirr, whirr went the wheels, and the
coarse jeans pants piled in great heaps
at her side. The Claiborne Street car
saw her oftener than before, and the
sweet white Virgin in the flowered niche
above the gold-domed altar smiled at
the little supplicant almost every day.
“Ma foi,” said the slatternly land-
lady to Madame Laurent and Michel
one day, “ I no see how she live! Eat?
Nothin', nothin', almos', and las' night
when it was so cold and foggy, eh? I


Little Miss Sophie 149
hav' to mek him build fire. She mos'
freeze.”
Whereupon the rumour spread that
Miss Sophie was starving herself to
death to get some luckless relative out
of jail for Christmas; a rumour which
enveloped her scraggy little figure with
a kind of halo to the neighbours when
she appeared on the streets.
November had merged into Decem-
ber, and the little pile of coins was yet
far from the sum needed. Dear God !
how the money did have to go! The
rent and the groceries and the coal,
though, to be sure, she used a precious
bit of that. Would all the work and
saving and skimping do good? May-
be, yes, maybe by Christmas.
Christmas Eve on Royal Street is no
place for a weakling, for the shouts and
carousals of the roisterers will strike
fear into the bravest ones. Yet amid
the cries and yells, the deafening blow


150 Little Miss Sophie
of horns and tin whistles, and the
really dangerous fusillade of fireworks, a
little figure hurried along, one hand
clutching tightly the battered hat that
the rude merry-makers had torn off,
the other grasping under the thin black
cape a worn little pocketbook.
Into the Mont de Piété she ran
breathless, eager. The ticket? Here,
worn, crumpled. The ring? It was
not gone? No, thank Heaven! It
was a joy well worth her toil, she
thought, to have it again.
Had Titiche not been shooting crack-
ers on the banquette instead of peering
into the crack, as was his wont, his big,
round black eyes would have grown
saucer-wide to see little Miss Sophie
kiss and fondle a ring, an ugly clumsy
band of gold.
“Ah, dear ring,” she murmured,
“once you were his, and you shall be
his again. You shall be on his finger,


152 Little Miss Sophie
S
“Miss Sophie, well, po' soul, not
ver' much Chris’mas for her. Mais,
I'll jus call him in fo' to spen' the day
with me. Eet 'll cheer her a bit.”
It was so clean and orderly within
the poor little room. Not a speck of
dust or a litter of any kind on the
quaint little old-time high bureau, un-
less you might except a sheet of paper
lying loose with something written on
it. Titiche had evidently inherited his
prying propensities, for the landlady
turned it over and read, -
Louis, — Here is the ring. I return it to
you. I heard you needed it. I hope it
comes not too late.
SOPHIE.
“The ring, where?” muttered the
landlady. There it was, clasped be-
tween her fingers on her bosom, — a
bosom white and cold, under a cold
happy face. Christmas had indeed
dawned for Miss Sophie.





SISTER JOSEPHA
SISTER JOSEPHA told her beads me-
chanically, her fingers numb with the
accustomed exercise. The little organ
creaked a dismal “O Salutaris,” and
she still knelt on the floor, her white-
bonneted head nodding suspiciously.
The Mother Superior gave a sharp
glance at the tired figure; then, as a
sudden lurch forward brought the little
sister back to consciousness, Mother's
eyes relaxed into a genuine smile.
The bell tolled the end of vespers, and
the sombre-robed nuns filed out of the
chapel to go about their evening duties.
Little Sister Josepha's work was to
attend to the household lamps, but
there must have been as much oil
spilled upon the table to-night as was


Sister Josepha 157
called from her couch to know if Sister
Josepha were ill.
“No," was the somewhat short re-
sponse; then a muttered, “ Why can't
they let me alone for a minute? That
pale-eyed Sister Dominica never sleeps ;
that's why she is so ugly.”
About fifteen years before this night
some one had brought to the orphan
asylum connected with this convent, du
Sacré Coeur, a round, dimpled bit of
three-year-old humanity, who regarded
the world from a pair of gravely twink-
ling black eyes, and only took a chubby
thumb out of a rosy mouth long enough
to answer in monosyllabic French. It
was a child without an identity; there
was but one name that any one seemed
to know, and that, too, was vague,-
Camille.
She grew up with the rest of the
waifs ; scraps of French and American
civilization thrown together to develop


Sister Josepha 159
tomed to its various inflections, detected
a steely ring behind its softness, like the
proverbial iron hand in the velvet glove.
“ You must understand, madame,”
continued Mother, in stilted English,
“ that we never force children from us.
We are ever glad to place them in com-
fortable - how you say that? - quar-
ters maisons — homes — bien ! But
we will not make them go if they do
not wish.”
Camille stole a glance at her would-
be guardians, and decided instantly, im-
pulsively, finally. The woman suited
her; but the man! It was doubtless
intuition of the quick, vivacious sort
which belonged to her blood that served
her. Untutored in worldly knowledge,
she could not divine the meaning of the
pronounced leers and admiration of her
physical charms which gleamed in the
man's face, but she knew it made her
feel creepy, and stoutly refused to go.


Sister Josepha 161
ma
Why did you not wish to go with
Monsieur and Madame Lafayé yester-
day?”
The girl uncrossed her hands from
her bosom, and spread them out in a
deprecating gesture.
“Mais, ma mère, I was afraid.”
Mother's face grew stern. “No fool-
ishness now,” she exclaimed.
“It is not foolishness, ma mère; I
could not help it, but that man looked
at me so funny, I felt all cold chills
down my back. Oh, dear Mother, I
love the convent and the sisters so, I
just want to stay and be a sister too,
may I?”
And thus it was that Camille took
the white veil at sixteen years. Now
that the period of novitiate was over, it
was just beginning to dawn upon her
that she had made a mistake.
“Maybe it would have been better
had I gone with the funny-looking lady
II


162 Sister Josepha
S
10
and gentleman,” she mused bitterly one
night. “Oh, Seigneur, I'm so tired and
impatient; it's so dull here, and, dear
God, I'm so young.”
There was no help for it. One must
arise in the morning, and help in the
refectory with the stupid Sister Fran-
cesca, and go about one's duties with a
prayerful mien, and not even let a sigh
escape when one's head ached with the
eternal telling of beads.
A great fête day was coming, and
an atmosphere of preparation and mild
excitement pervaded the brown walls
of the convent like a delicate aroma.
The old Cathedral around the corner
had stood a hundred years, and all the
city was rising to do honour to its
age and time-softened beauty. There
would be a service, oh, but such a one!
with two Cardinals, and Archbishops
and Bishops, and all the accompanying
glitter of soldiers and orchestras. The


Sister Josepha 163
little sisters of the Convent du Sacré
Caur clasped their hands in anticipa-
tion of the holy joy. Sister Josepha
curled her lip, she was so tired of
churchly pleasures.
The day came, a gold and blue spring
day, when the air hung heavy with
the scent of roses and magnolias, and
the sunbeams fairly laughed as they
kissed the houses. The old Cathedral
stood gray and solemn, and the flowers
in Jackson Square smiled cheery birth-
day greetings across the way. The
crowd around the door surged and
pressed and pushed in its eagerness to
get within. Ribbons stretched across
the banquette were of no avail to re-
press it, and important ushers with
cardinal colours could do little more.
The Sacred Heart sisters filed slowly
in at the side door, creating a momen-
tary flutter as they paced reverently to
their seats, guarding the blue-bonneted


164 Sister Josepha
SO
orphans. Sister Josepha, determined to
see as much of the world as she could,
kept her big black eyes opened wide,
as the church rapidly filled with the
fashionably dressed, perfumed, rustling,
and self-conscious throng.
Her heart beat quickly. The rebel-
lious thoughts that will arise in the most
philosophical of us surged in her small
heavily gowned bosom. For her were
the gray things, the neutral tinted skies,
the ugly garb, the coarse meats; for
them the rainbow, the ethereal airiness
of earthly joys, the bonbons and glacés
of the world. Sister Josepha did not
know that the rainbow is elusive, and
its colours but the illumination of
tears; she had never been told that
earthly ethereality is necessarily ephem-
eral, nor that bonbons and glacés,
whether of the palate or of the soul,
nauseate and pall upon the taste. Dear
God, forgive her, for she bent with


Sister Josepha 165
contrite tears over her worn rosary, and
glanced no more at the worldly glitter
of femininity.
The sunbeams streamed through the
high windows in purple and crimson
lights upon a veritable fugue of colour.
Within the seats, crush upon crush of
spring millinery; within the aisles erect
lines of gold-braided, gold-buttoned
military. Upon the altar, broad sweeps
of golden robes, great dashes of crimson
skirts, mitres and gleaming crosses, the
soft neutral hue of rich lace vestments;
the tender heads of childhood in pic-
turesque attire; the proud, golden mag-
nificence of the domed altar with
its weighting mass of lilies and wide-
eyed roses, and the long candles that
sparkled their yellow star points above
the reverent throng within the altar
rails.
The soft baritone of the Cardinal
intoned a single phrase in the suspended
eve


168 Sister Josepha
before, save for the one little heart that
beat rebelliously now and then, though
it tried so hard to be submissive. There
was the morning work in the refectory,
the stupid little girls to teach sewing,
and the insatiable lamps that were so
greedy for oil. And always the tender,
boyish brown eyes, that looked so sor-
rowfully at the fragile, beautiful little
sister, haunting, following, pleading.
Perchance, had Sister Josepha been
in the world, the eyes would have been
an incident. But in this home of self-
repression and retrospection, it was a
life-story. The eyes had gone their
way, doubtless forgetting the little sis-
ter they pitied; but the little sister ?
The days glided into weeks, the
weeks into months. Thoughts of es-
cape had come to Sister Josepha, to
flee into the world, to merge in the
great city where recognition was impos-
sible, and, working her way like the rest


Sister Josepha 169
of humanity, perchance encounter the
eyes again.
It was all planned and ready. She
would wait until some morning when
the little band of black-robed sisters
wended their way to mass at the Cathe-
dral. When it was time to file out the
side-door into the courtway, she would
linger at prayers, then slip out another
door, and unseen glide up Chartres
Street to Canal, and once there, mingle
in the throng that filled the wide
thoroughfare. Beyond this first plan
she could think no further. Penniless,
garbed, and shaven though she would
be, other difficulties never presented
themselves to her. She would rely on
the mercies of the world to help her
escape from this torturing life of inertia.
It seemed easy now that the first step
of decision had been taken.
The Saturday night before the final
day had come, and she lay feverishly


Sister Josepha 171
could never tell from whom or whence
she came; no friends, and a beauty
that not even an ungainly bonnet and
shaven head could hide. In a flash she
realised the deception of the life she
would lead, and the cruel self-torture
of wonder at her own identity. Already,
as if in anticipation of the world's ques-
tionings, she was asking herself, “Who
am I? What am I?”
The next morning the sisters du
Sacré Cour filed into the Cathedral at
High Mass, and bent devout knees
at the general confession. “Confiteor
Deo omnipotenti,” murmured the priest;
and tremblingly one little sister followed
the words, “Je confesse à Dieu, tout
puissant - que j'ai beaucoup péché par
pensées — c'est ma faute — c'est ma
faute — c'est ma très grande faute.”
The organ pealed forth as mass
ended, the throng slowly filed out, and
the sisters paced through the courtway


THE PRALINE WOMAN





176 The Praline Woman
“Mais oui, madame, I know you
étranger. You don' look lak dese New
Orleans peop'. You lak' dose Yankee
dat come down 'fo' de war.”
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong,
chimes the Cathedral bell across Jack-
son Square, and the praline woman
crosses herself.
“ Hail, Mary, full of grace
“Pralines, madame? You buy lak'
dat? Dix sous, madame, an' one lil
piece fo' lagniappe fo' madame's liľ
bébé. Ah, c'est bon!
“Pralines, pralines, so fresh, so fine!
M'sieu would lak' some fo’ he's lil' gal?
at home? Mais non, what's dat you
say? She's daid! Ah, m'sieu, 't is
my lil gal what died long year ago.
Misère, misère !
“Here come dat lazy Indien squaw.
What she good fo', anyhow? She jes'
sit lak dat in de French Market an'
sell her filé, an’ sleep, sleep, sleep, lak'


178 The Praline Woman
Po' Tante Marie get too ol. Didele?
She's one lil' gal I ”dopt. I see her one
day in de strit. He walk so; hit col'
she shiver, an' I say, 'Where you gone,
lil' gal?' and he can' tell. He jes' crip
close to me, an' cry so! Den I tak’
her home wid me, and she say he's
name Didele. You see dey wa’nt no-
body dere. My lil gal, she's daid of de
yellow fever; my lil boy, he's daid, po'
Tante Marie all alone. Didele, she
grow fine, she keep house an' mek’
pralines. Den, when night come, she
sit wid he's guitar an' sing,
«« Tu l'aime ces trois jours,
Tu l'aime ces trois jours,
Ma cæur à toi,
Ma cæur à toi,
: Tu l'aime ces trois jours !'
“Ah, he's fine gal, is Didele !
“ Pralines, pralines ! Dat lil cloud,
h'it look lak' rain, I hope no.
“Here come dat lazy l'ishman down


The Praline Woman 179
de strit. I don't lak’ l'ishman, me,
non, dey so funny. One day one
l'ishman, he say to me, ‘Auntie, what
fo' you talk so?' and I jes’ say back,
“What fo' you say “Faith an' be
jabers”?'. Non, I don' lak I'ishman,
me!
“Here come de rain! Now I got
fo' to go. Didele, she be wait fo' me.
Down h'it come! H'it fall in de
Meesseesip, an'fill up — up — so,
clean to de levee, den we have big cri-
vasse, an' po' Tante Marie float away.
Bon jour, madame, you come again?
Pralines ! Pralines !”





ODALIE





184
Odalie
On Mardi Gras day, as you know, it
is a town gone mad with folly. A huge
masked ball emptied into the streets at
daylight; a meeting of all nations on
common ground, a pot-pourri of every
conceivable human ingredient, but
faintly describes it all. There are music
and flowers, cries and laughter and song
and joyousness, and never an aching
heart to show its sorrow or dim the
happiness of the streets. A wondrous
thing, this Carnival !
But the old cronies down in French-
town, who know everything, and can
recite you many a story, tell of one sad
heart on Mardi Gras years ago. It
was a woman's, of course ; for “Il est
toujours les femmes qui sont malheu-
reuses,” says an old proverb, and per-
haps it is right. This woman — a child,
she would be called elsewhere, save in
this land of tropical growth and pre-
cocity — lost her heart to one who


Odalie
187
and blushes, and mayhap, at some
especially remembered time, the touch
of finger-tips at the holy-water font,
while la Tante dropped her last genu-
flexion.
Then came the Carnival time, and
one little heart beat faster, as the gray
house on Royal Street hung out its
many-hued flags, and draped its grim
front with glowing colours. It was to
be a time of joy and relaxation, when
every one could go abroad, and in the
crowds one could speak to whom one
chose. Unconscious plans formulated,
and the petite Odalie was quite happy
as the time drew near.
“Only think, Tante Louise,” she
would cry, “what a happy time it is
to be!”
But Tante Louise only grumbled, as
was her wont.
It was Mardi Gras day at last, and
early through her window Odalie could


Odalie
189
Mardi Gras was a tiresome day, after
all, she sighed, and Tante Louise agreed
with her for once.
Six o'clock had come, the hour when
all masks must be removed. The long
red rays of the setting sun glinted
athwart the many-hued costumes of
the revellers trooping unmasked home-
ward to rest for the night's last mad
frolic.
Down Toulouse Street there came
the merriest throng of all. Young
men and women in dainty, fairy-like
garb, dancers, and dresses of the pic-
turesque Empire, a butterfly or two and
a dame here and there with powdered
hair and graces of olden time. Sing-
ing with unmasked faces, they danced
toward Tante Louise and Odalie. She
stood with eyes lustrous and tear-heavy,
for there in the front was Pierre, Pierre
the faithless, his arms about the slen-
door waist of a butterfly, whose tinselled


198 La Juanita
wilful head, and said she would go to
the pier this evening to meet her Mer-
cer. All Mandeville knew this, and
cast its furtive glances alternately at La
Juanita with two big pink spots in her
cheeks, and at the entrance to the pier,
expecting Grandpère Colomés and a
scene.
The sun cast red glows and violet
shadows over the pier, and the pines
murmured a soft little vesper hymn
among themselves up on the beach, as
the “New Camelia” swung herself in,
crabby, sidewise, like a fat old gentle-
man going into a small door. There
was the clang of an important bell, the
scream of a hoarse little whistle, and
Mandeville rushed to the gang-plank
to welcome the outside world. Juanita
put her hand through a waiting arm,
and tripped away with her Mercer, big
and blond and brawny. “Un Améri-
cain, pah!” said the little mother


La Juanita 201
knew its every mood, its petulances and
passions; he knew this glassy warmth
and what it meant. Chuckling again
and again, he stepped to the gallery and
looked out over the lake, and at the
pier, where lay the boats rocking and
idly tugging at their moorings. La
Juanita in her rose-scented room tied
the pink ribbons on her dainty frock,
and fastened cloth of gold roses at her
lithe waist.
It was said that just before the crack
of the pistol La Juanita's tiny hand lay
in Mercer's, and that he bent his head,
and whispered softly, so that the sur-
rounding crowd could not hear, —
“ Juanita mine, if I win, you will ?”
“Oui, mon Mercere, eef you win.”
In another instant the white wings
were off scudding before the rising
breeze, dipping their glossy boat-sides
into the clear water, straining their
cordage in their tense efforts to reach


La Juanita 205
breakwaters and piers, dashing their
brackish spray upon the strained watch-
ers; then with a shriek and a howl the
storm burst full, with blinding sheets of
rain, and a great hurricane of Gulf wind
that threatened to blow the little town
away.
La Juanita was proud. When Grand-
père and Madame led her away in the
storm, though her face was white, and
the rose mouth pressed close, not a
word did she say, and her eyes were as
bright as ever before. It was foolish
to hope that the frail boats could sur-
vive such a storm. There was not even
the merest excuse for shelter out in the
waters, and when Lake Pontchartrain
grows angry, it devours without pity.
Your tropical storm is soon over,
however, and in an hour the sun strug-
gled through a gray and misty sky,
over which the wind was sweeping
great clouds. The rain-drops hung
OV
as


La Juanita 207
Well, they came into the pier at last,
“ La Juanita” in the lead; and as Cap-
tain Mercer landed, he was surrounded
by a voluble, chattering, anxious throng
that loaded him with questions in patois,
in broken English, and in French. He
was no longer “un Américain” now, he
was a hero. .
When the other eight boats came in,
and Mandeville saw that no one was
lost, there was another ringing bravo,
and more chattering of questions.
We heard the truth finally. When
the storm burst, Captain Mercer sud-
denly promoted himself to an admiral-
ship and assumed command of his little
fleet. He had led them through the
teeth of the gale to a small inlet on the
coast between Bayou Lacombe and
Nott's Point, and there they had waited
until the storm passed. Loud were the
praises of the other captains for Admiral
Mercer, profuse were the thanks of the


TITEE





TITEE
It was cold that day. The great
sharp north-wind swept out Elysian
Fields Street in blasts that made men
shiver, and bent everything in their
track. The skies hung lowering and
gloomy; the usually quiet street was
more than deserted, it was dismal.
Titee leaned against one of the
brown freight cars for protection against
the shrill norther, and warmed his little
chapped hands at a blaze of chips
and dry grass. “Maybe it'll snow,'.
he muttered, casting a glance at the sky
that would have done credit to a prac-
tised seaman. “Then won't I have
fun! Ugh, but the wind blows !”
It was Saturday, or Titee would
have been in school, the big yellow


Titee
217
one of the boys found him standing by
a post, disconsolately watching a ham
sandwich as it rapidly disappeared down
the throat of a sturdy, square-headed
little fellow.
“Hello, Edgar," he said, “what you
got fer lunch ?”
“Nothin',” was the mournful reply.
“Ah, why don't you stop eatin'in
school, fer a change? You don't ever
have nothin' to eat.”
“I did n't eat to-day,” said Titee,
blazing up.
“You did !”
“I tell you I did n't !” and Titee's
hard little fist planted a punctuation
mark on his comrade's eye.
A fight in the schoolyard ! Poor
Titee was in disgrace again. Still, in
spite of his battered appearance, a severe
scolding from the principal, lines to
write, and a further punishment from
his mother, Titee scarcely remained for


218
Titee
his dinner, but was off down the rail-
road track with his pockets partly
stuffed with the remnants of the scanty
meal.
And the next day Titee was tardy
again, and lunchless too, and the next,
until the teacher, in despair, sent a nicely
printed note to his mother about him,
which might have done some good, had
not Titee taken great pains to tear it up
on the way home.
One day it rained, whole bucketsful
of water, that poured in torrents from a
miserable, angry sky. Too wet a day
for bits of boys to be trudging to school,
so Titee's mother thought; so she kept
him at home to watch the weather
through the window, fretting and fum-
ing like a regular storm in miniature. As
the day wore on, and the rain did not
abate, his mother kept a strong watch
upon him, for he tried many times to
slip away.


Titee
223
corner
was
an
corner was an equally dilapidated
cow.
“It's my old man!” cried Titee, joy-
fully. “Oh, please, grandpa, I couldn't
get here to-day, it rained all mornin'
an’ when I ran away, I fell down an'
broke something, an', oh, grandpa, I'm
all tired an' hurty, an' I'm so 'fraid
you 're hungry.”
So the secret of Titee's jaunts down
the railroad was out. In one of his
trips around the swamp-land, he had
discovered the old man exhausted from
cold and hunger in the fields. To-
gether they had found this cave, and
Titee had gathered the straw and paper
that made the bed. Then a tramp
cow, old and turned adrift, too, had
crept in and shared the damp dwel-
ling. And thither Titee had trudged
twice a day, carrying his luncheon in
the morning and his dinner in the
afternoon.



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