m 
 
 
This is a reproduction of a book from the McGill University Library collection. 
 
 Title: Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Author: Frechette, Louis Flonore, 1839-1908 
 
 Publisher, year: Toronto : G.N. Morang, 1899 
 
 The pages were digitized as they were. The original book may have contained pages 
 with poor print. Marks, notations, and other marginalia present in the original 
 volume may also appear. For wider or heavier books, a slight curvature to the text on 
 the inside of pages may be noticeable. 
 
 ISBN of reproduction: 978-1-77096-088-6 
 
 This reproduction is intended for personal use only, and may not be reproduced, 
 re-published, or re-distributed commercially. For further information on permission 
 regarding the use of this reproduction contact McGill University Library. 
 
 McGill University Library 
 www.mcgill.ca/library 
 
CHRISTMAS IN FRENCH CANADA 
 

'hnt! vent! V'fa fjo/i vent" 
 
 Kronti^piccl•) 
 
With Illustratsqhs by 
 r REDE^lOcSlMPSOH COBUPH 
 
 TORONTO 
 
 H»liO^ANG aCOMPAMVXllMIOTED 
 1899 
 
Entered according’ to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year one 
 thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine, by George N. Morang 
 & CoMPAN'V, Limited, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture, 
 
Uo 
 
 iUie Ubree Efccllent jfricnbe anb ISrotbec poete 
 
 George Murray 
 William McLennan and 
 William Henry Drummond 
 
 THIS FIRST ENGLISH BOOK OF MINE IS CORDIALLY 
 AND THANKFULLY DEDICATED 
 
 L. F. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 A ^IERE glance at most of the stories 
 which compose this collection will con- 
 vince anyone that the author is not an Eng- 
 lish writer. It may be added, moreover, that 
 he entertains no ambition of ever becoming 
 one. In his opinion, it is a sufficiently 
 difficult task to learn how to master one’s 
 own mother tongue. 
 
 Then, why publish this book which is 
 unavoidably defective, at least as regards 
 phraseology and style ? 
 
 In writing it, I had two objects in view. 
 The first was to find a new mode of recreation, 
 and the other, to do something to popularize, 
 among exclusive English readers, this portion 
 of the American soil called French Canada, 
 with the characteristic features that she bor- 
 rows from her sui generis climate, and 
 
 especially from her people, whose language, 
 
 vii 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 manners, customs, traditions, and popular 
 beliefs bear an exceptional stamp, and must 
 thereby be invested with a peculiar interest 
 in the eyes of the surrounding populations. 
 
 To attain this last object, I have tried, in 
 a few pen sketches, to convey some idea of 
 the wild rigor of our winters, by putting, in 
 turn, face to face with them, our valiant pio- 
 neers of the forest, our bold adventurers of 
 the North-West, and our sturdy tamers of the 
 floes, whose exploits of the past are gradually 
 being forgotten in the presence of invading 
 progress. I have endeavored to evoke some 
 of the old legends, to bring back to life 
 some picturesque types of yore, whose idiom, 
 habits, costumes, and superstitious practices 
 have long ago disappeared, or are disappear- 
 ing rapidly. In the meanwhile, I took 
 pleasure in leading the reader to some of 
 our country abodes, into the settler’s isolated 
 cottage, into the well-to-do farmer’s residence, 
 beyond the threshold of our villagers, inherit- 
 ors of their forefathers’ cordial joviality. I 
 have also invited the stranger into some of 
 
 our city homes, initiating him into our family 
 
 viii 
 
Preface 
 
 life, into our intimate joys and sorrows, and 
 introducing him occasionally to some old and 
 pious guardian of our dear national traditions. 
 This I have done with no other concern than 
 to strike the right key, to place the groups 
 in their natural light, and to draw each 
 portrait faithfully. 
 
 Are these pictures in any way interesting? 
 I can claim for them at least one merit : 
 that of being true. 
 
 But why should I have penned these 
 sketches in more or less awkward English, 
 when it was so simple to write them in 
 French, and so easy to secure a good trans- 
 lation from some experienced critic, familiar 
 with the beauties and literary resources of 
 the English language ? The reason is no 
 mystery : a translation would not have been 
 my own work, and I would have missed my 
 first aim, that of securing a few weeks of 
 pleasant recreation. 
 
 I always read with renewed interest the 
 
 French stanzas addressed by Longfellow to 
 
 his friend. Professor Agassiz. The effort is 
 
 apparent, no doubt ; but there is a charm in 
 
 ix 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 the effort itself. Surely, the recipient of this 
 humoristic poem would have understood 
 equally well some English effusion from the 
 pen of the great poet ; but nobody will 
 believe that the satisfaction would have been 
 the same on either side. As for Longfellow, 
 he perhaps felt more enjoyment in accom- 
 plishing that tour de force, than in writing 
 some of his world-renowned masterpieces. 
 
 After this honest acknowledgment, it 
 only remains for me to tender my thanks 
 to the distinguished artist, Mr. Frederick 
 Simpson Coburn, who was good enough to 
 seek inspiration in my little stories, and to 
 take advantage of them to give the public, 
 once more, proofs of the skilfulness of his 
 pencil, and of his ability to interpret the 
 different national Canadian types. 
 
 L. F. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Voix DE Noel 
 O x THE Threshold - 
 Santa Claus’ \aolix 
 A Godsend 
 I x A Snow Storm 
 Little Pauline 
 The Christmas Log 
 
 Page. 
 
 I 
 
 3 
 
 i8 
 
 34 
 
 8o 
 
 98 
 
 113 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Jeannette - - - - - - -129 
 
 The Phantom Head - - - - 142 
 
 OuiSE 169 
 
 The Horseshoe . - - - 184 
 
 Tom Cariboo 202 
 
 Titange - . _ - . 223 
 
 The Loup-Garou . . _ _ . 241 
 
 
 
 xU 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Page. 
 
 V’la l’ bon vent ! V’la l’joli vent ! ” 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
 Our Days Passed in Continual Tra- 
 vel,” - - - - lO 
 
 Clasped the Insensible Wood,” i6 
 
 We were Somewhat Late in arriving 
 
 AT St, Joachim,” - - - - 84 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 PAGE 
 
 “All Pierre’s Couplets and Refrains 
 
 WERE GONE THROUGH,” - - 96 
 
 Aunt Lucy . . - lOo 
 
 Pauline - . _ . 103 
 
 “ To Kiss your Brow and Bless your 
 
 LITTLE great HeART,” - - - I 12 
 
 Christening the Christmas Log - 124 
 
 “ Dictated Word for Word by his 
 
 Spoilt Pet,” - - - - 136 
 
 “ It was a Hard Calling,” - - 144 
 
 Old Baron 150 
 
 At Uncle Vien’s 152 
 
 “ I Bring You Back a Little Saint,” 17S 
 
 “ After which it was the Bear we 
 
 HAD TO Drag to the Camp,” - 216 
 
 “Tom Cariboo began to Descend,” - 221 
 
 XIV 
 
Illustrations 
 
 PAGE 
 
 “ Looked like a Fritter out of the 
 
 Fryin'g Pax,’’ - - - 225 
 
 “ Every Christmas Eve there is always 
 
 A MCE Daxcixg Hop,” - 228 
 
 “ Beyond the Pointe-aux-Bapteinnes, 
 
 God is Nowhere,” - - 232 
 
 “Joachim Crete was Proprietor of a 
 
 Mill,” - 247 
 
 “ Look here, Joachim, if you want a 
 Place in my Berlot there is one 
 FOR YOU,” - - - - 252 
 
 “And He Fell on his Knees,” - 258 
 
 
 XV 
 
Le lourd baltant de fer bandit dans T air sonore, 
 Et le bronze en runieitr ^branle ses essieux . . . 
 Volez, cloches ! grondez, clamez, tonnez encore ! 
 Ckantez paix sur la ierre et gloire dans les deux ! 
 
 Sous les domes ronjlants des vastes basiliques, 
 Idorgue r^pand le plot de ses accords puissants, 
 Monlez vers F Elernel, beaux hymnes symboliques ! 
 Montez avec F amour, la pride et I 'encens ! 
 
 J 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Enfants, le doux Jdsus vans sourit dans ses langes ; 
 A VOS accents joyeux laissez prendre I'essor; 
 
 Lancez vos clairs noels : la-haut les petits anges 
 Pour voiis accompagner penchent leurs harpes d'or. 
 
 Blonds chdrubins chantant a la lueur des cierges, 
 Voix d'airain, bruits sacr^ qtte le del mime entend, 
 Sainte musique, au moins, gardez chastes et vierges. 
 Pour ceux qtii ue croient plus, les Ugendes d'antanl 
 
I E were on our way from 
 Montreal to Quebec, 
 and during the evening 
 the little group, gath- 
 ered on the deck of the 
 steamer, had fallen into a 
 discussion chiefly on literary 
 topics. 
 
 Of course some of us, (con- 
 vinced or pretended pessimists), did not fail 
 
 3 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 to declare our modern progress, exemplified 
 in trade, practical science, and industry, to 
 be the inveterate enemy of all that was 
 ideal. According to them, steam, electricity, 
 and, above all, the spirit of Commercialism 
 had killed Poetry : the Eiffel tower was 
 
 her funeral monument. 
 
 “ Pardon me,” interrupted one of the little 
 audience, whom ^ the debate had attracted, 
 in the easy fashion which rules amongst 
 travellers, “ pardon me, but you are simply 
 uttering flat heresy. Poetry will never die 
 so long as there is a heart beating in a 
 man’s breast. The ideal is within oneself, 
 rather than in the world without. That which 
 passes generally for the most commonplace 
 object may, according to circumstances, assume 
 a glorified aspect, or create an impression 
 similar to that produced by lyrical or sentimen- 
 tal poetry of the most elevated description. 
 All depends on the state of the mind, and 
 above all on the point of view of the beholder. 
 
 “Take my experience, for instance: the 
 
 most poetic thing I ever saw in my life, that 
 which moved and stirred my soul with the 
 
 4 
 
On the Threshold 
 
 most vivid and profound feeling, was an object 
 so utterly commonplace that none of you, I am 
 sure, would ever think of supposing it capable 
 of evoking the slightest emotion. It was 
 nothing more or less than a simple telegraph 
 pole.” 
 
 “ A telegraph pole ? Oh, come! ” 
 
 “ Seriously, gentlemen ; I am not chaffing. 
 Let me tell you my story, and you shall judge.” 
 
 The speaker was a Canadian of French 
 descent, strong and active, although well in 
 the sixties, with an energetic face, a piercing 
 eye, a well modulated voice, and the accent of 
 a man of education. 
 
 We eagerly pressed him for his story, and 
 without further preamble he began ; 
 
 Gentlemen, I passed twenty-two years of 
 what I may call my youth in a part of our 
 country little known at that time, but which 
 has been widely heard of since the Klondike. 
 
 No one then dreamt of digging in that 
 frozen soil for either nuggets or yellow sand. 
 The sole industry in those regions was the fur 
 trade. The wild treasures we sought were to 
 be obtained neither by pick nor cradle, but by 
 
 5 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 traps and rifle, whether in our own hands or in 
 those of the natives who frequented our trading 
 posts. 
 
 I would not allude to the circumstances 
 which led me there, were they not so suggestive 
 as to the state of mind I was in when the 
 incidents of my story took place. Here they 
 are in a few words. 
 
 I was born at Riviere-Ouelle. My father 
 died while I was yet at college, and my mother 
 married a second time some two years later. 
 
 When I finished my course, my mother 
 wished me to enter one of the professions, 
 which would have suited me well enough ; but 
 this called for certain economies at home, which 
 my step-father, with whom I had but little in 
 common, determinedly opposed. Out of this 
 arose discussion, misunderstanding and strife ; 
 in short, an impossible existence for either my 
 mother or myself 
 
 My poor mother ! she had suffered from my 
 presence ; she was to weep over my absence. 
 
 Just because I loved her so tenderh^, I could 
 
 not endure the thought that I was a cause of 
 
 distress to her. The only remedy was my 
 
 6 
 
On the Threshold 
 
 immediate and permanent separation from 
 
 her, and I took the first opportunity to 
 apply it. 
 
 It presented itself in an offer from the 
 
 Hudson’s Bay Company to engage in their 
 service. So I left home, and started for 
 the North-West and the far off borders of 
 Alaska, with a party of adventurous youths 
 like myself. 
 
 I shall not dwell on my wanderings 
 
 and the life I led at the different posts 
 
 where I was stationed. Ah ! I’ll answer for 
 it that any of those who think modern 
 
 civilization too commonplace would have 
 
 found there full opportunity to modify 
 their opinion that primeval savagery is 
 primeval poetry. 
 
 Of the necessities of life there was no lack ; 
 but those thousand and one little luxuries, those 
 trifling refinements which make the charm of 
 life, were not to be dreamt of Of work there 
 
 was plenty, and of the hardest, most exacting 
 
 kind. But only at certain seasons. And how 
 to spend the time during the rest of the 
 year? Books were rare. What could we 
 
 7 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 invent to kill the awful monotony of the 
 weary and interminable winter, face to face 
 always with the same companions, and only 
 able to mark the passing of the days by 
 the short appearance of the sun above the 
 horizon ? 
 
 No news from home! Cut off from the 
 outside world during twelve long months every 
 year ! Only one yearh^ mail, which arrived in 
 the summer season, and that was all. Imagine 
 twenty-two years of such an existence ! 
 
 At length, during the autumn of 1876, the 
 belated mail contained for me two pieces of 
 news which brought me singularly closer to my 
 old life and country. The one was that m}' 
 step-father was dead, and that my poor mother, 
 now old and infirm, was living only in the hope 
 of my return. The other was that the newly 
 constructed Canadian Pacific Railway had just 
 reached Calgary, from thence to take a leap 
 over the Rocky Mountains. 
 
 I was then at Fort Yukon, on the Yukon 
 
 River, 300 miles to the northwest of Fort 
 
 Reliance, now famous as Dawson City. I 
 
 was free to leave. A Sioux, who knew the 
 
 8 
 
On the Threshold 
 
 country and was returning to Edmonton, would 
 serve as guide ; with my heart throbbing with 
 impatience I hastened my preparations for 
 departure. 
 
 Thus it was that the morning of the first day 
 of November saw me with my Indian, both of 
 us on snow shoes, ascending the frozen Porcu- 
 pine river, one man in front of, and the other 
 following a long toboggan laden with provisions 
 and baggage, drawn by four stout Esquimaux 
 dogs. We were en route for Eort Lapierre, a 
 good 250 miles to the East. 
 
 We would then cross the Rockies to reach 
 Eort McPherson, seventy miles through a pain- 
 ful labyrinth of torrents, of precipices, of threat- 
 ening rocks, of glaciers and towering peaks. 
 Eor the poetry of savagery there was the scene. 
 But I can assure you one was thankful to Provi- 
 dence when the poetic became less dominant 
 and sank into comfortable and less dangerous 
 prose. 
 
 Leaving Eort McPherson we had to follow 
 Peel river for about 100 miles, when another 
 hundred, of prairie, streams and portages, led 
 us towards Fort Good Hope on the Mackenzie, 
 
 9 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 which we ascended to the Great Slave lake, a 
 round of 6oo miles this time. 
 
 From Great Slave lake our course was a 
 straight line across the prairie to Athabaska 
 Landing, our last station before reaching 
 Edmonton — another march of at least 500 
 
 •• Unr days passed in continual trui'cl. 
 
 miles. No pleasure jaunt, that, nor a journey 
 to be undertaken lightly, as you see. But even 
 longer and harder stages may be faced with 
 a light heart when loved ones await at the 
 goal. 
 
 Our days passed in continual travel. 
 
On the Threshold 
 
 interrupted only by halts for the mid-day meal. 
 In the evening- we camped wherever sufficient 
 wood offered for our fire. When I say we 
 camped, it is only a form of speech, for the 
 camping was reduced to a very simple cere- 
 mony. First of all the dogs were unharnessed 
 and served with their rations of frozen fish — for 
 the dogs must be taken the greatest care of as 
 they are the most precious possession on such 
 a journey ; after which, the fire being well 
 lighted, we boiled our kettle. 
 
 Yes, we supped in open air, behind any kind 
 of shelter, and oftentimes without any shelter at 
 all, right in the wind and the snow drift. After 
 supper, we had to dry our furs, damped by the 
 exertions of the day ; then we smoked, and at 
 last stretched ourselves on the snow between a 
 bear skin and a blanket made of netted hare 
 fleece, with our guns close beside us — and 
 bonsoir^ camarade ! 
 
 With the exception of our halts at the 
 various forts and trading posts where we put, 
 in a day of rest well earned and much needed 
 we lodged thus every night i la belle ^toile, up 
 to the twenty-fourth of December when we had 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 counted on making Athabaska Landing early 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 I had contrived a little bone calendar for 
 myself in the shape of a horse-shoe, in which 
 small pegs served to mark the date of the 
 month and the day of the week. Thus I 
 had kept track of time, and despite cold and 
 fatip-ue, I felt cheered and comforted at the 
 thought of passing the holy Christmas Eve — 
 that feast dear above all others to the family 
 — in company with those of my own kind, 
 beneath a Christian roof. 
 
 Unfortunately, this fond desire of mine was 
 not to be realized. Since early morning heavy 
 snow had set in, driven by a strong north-east 
 wind, which rendered our march slow and 
 difficult. By noon we were in the centre of 
 a bewildering storm, through which we could 
 not see ten paces ahead. 
 
 Good Quebeckers imagine they know some- 
 thing of a winter storm. It would be cruel to 
 send them to the confines of the North-West to 
 find they have not, in reality, the slightest idea 
 of what it is. 
 
 In those remote regions it is simply a thing 
 
On the Threshold 
 
 of horror. It buffets and chokes, blinds and 
 freezes one. Footing is lost, one stumbles at 
 each step and cannot breathe ; all sense of 
 distance or direction is lost. Then nothing 
 serv'es to guide ; the sun itself shows onl)' a 
 feeble, diffused glimmer through the thickness 
 of the air. Even the compass fails, and one 
 staggers on at random, feeling the way, stiffened, 
 panting, half drowned in the furious bursts and 
 rage of the tempest. 
 
 Had I not been so bent on gaining the fort 
 that day, we might have squatted down in some 
 ravine, behind the shoulder of some protecting 
 rise, under a bush — anywhere at all — where the 
 storm might spend its fury over our heads ; but 
 I was obstinately determined not to camp in 
 the open that Christmas Eve, and we went on 
 stumbling ahead, even though our dogs would 
 not stir without the lash across their backs. 
 
 But all our efforts were in vain ; the fort 
 seemed to retreat before us, and by evening it 
 was clear we had missed our way. We were no 
 longer in doubt of that when the snow ceased 
 and the clouds broke sufficiently to let us see 
 by the stars that we were wandering too far 
 
 13 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 towards the West. To reach the fort that 
 night was an impossibility ; there was no help 
 for it. 
 
 Changing our direction, we struggled on for 
 a few hours longer, not so much in the hope 
 of making the fort, as of finding the wood 
 necessary for our camp. I was literally broken 
 with fatigue, arid I followed the dogs, stagger- 
 ing with nerveless limbs, and with my heart 
 numb with disappointment. 
 
 Suddenly the Indian, who was ahead, cried, 
 “ A tree ! ” 
 
 A tree ! That a tree ! Standing by itself in 
 the open prairie? Impossible! The Indian 
 must be dreaming. 
 
 Nevertheless, I slipped my axe from the 
 toboggan and joined him. Sure enough, right 
 in front of us, was a tall bare trunk without a 
 single branch, standing upright in the open 
 desert. 
 
 I stood for a moment in astonishment. But 
 suddenly my heart leaped within me, and I 
 gave a cry — a cry choked by a sob. 
 
 That bare, barkless trunk, that lifeless tree, 
 
 emerging from the soil like a lonely mast in 
 
 14 
 
On the Threshold 
 
 mid ocean, had been planted by man’s hand. 
 It was a telegraph pole ! 
 
 We had passed Athabaska Landing and 
 were on the trail to Edmonton. 
 
 Can you understand ? 
 
 A telegraph pole ! The advance sentinel of 
 civilization. Was it not like a friendly hand 
 stretched out towards me from the threshold 
 of my own country? Was it not a greeting 
 from a re-discovered world, the welcome to a 
 living, cultivated land, peopled by intelligent 
 beings, by comrades and by friends? Was it 
 not . . was it not home ? 
 
 I was re-entering social life after twenty-tw'O 
 long years of exile in the savage solitude. 
 More than that, it was almost a re-entrance 
 into family life, for that wire which I could 
 hear humming above my head was a link 
 between me and the past ; it connected me 
 with my village, with the paternal roof now 
 dearer to me than ever, with my poor old 
 mother,' to whom I almost imagined I could 
 send a cry of joy and comfort despite the weary 
 3,0(X) miles that still lay between us. 
 
 Can you understand ? 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Ah ! but to realize what I mean, you must 
 have felt it all as I did. Lost, as I was, under 
 an arctic sky, in the midst of a frozen desert, 
 with all the memories of the holy Christmas 
 Eve in my despairin'^ heart, my brain reeled 
 before the unexpected symbol of intercourse, 
 of fellowship, of civilization ! 
 
 Before the staring eyes of my companion in 
 misery, who, terrified by the weird song of the 
 wire which vibrated in the sweeping wind, 
 stammered “ Manitou ! Manitou ! ” I sprang 
 forward with outstretched arms, clasped the 
 insensible wood, fell on my knees, and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 That is my story, gentlemen. We camped 
 that night fireless and supperless, crouching 
 round the pole ; and through my dreams the 
 voice of the wire boomed and rang, bearing to 
 me, now the sacred hymns of the midn ight 
 service, now the carillon of the distant bells 
 of I.a Riviere-Ouelle. 
 
 Take my word for it, I never attended such 
 a poetic midnight mass in the whole of my life 
 as that my fancy supplied in those hours of 
 waiting and of hope. 
 
 i6 
 
Clasped the insensible myxi . . . and. burst 
 into tears” 
 
 Pag-f 
 
On the Threshold 
 
 No, no, gentlemen, the spirit of Poetry never 
 dies ; it lives always in the innermost recesses 
 of our souls, and the mere touch of those waves 
 of realism, which, in the eyes of some people, 
 threaten to drown it, is often sufficient to 
 awaken its divinest thrills and to evoke its 
 most heart-stirring melodies. 
 
 >7 
 
SANTA CLAUS 
 
 VIOLIN. 
 
 UFFER me to intro- 
 duce you to a quiet 
 household. Although 
 they were not exactly 
 what may be called 
 elderly, the father 
 and the mother were 
 no longer in their first 
 youth, when, after one 
 year of marriage, blessed 
 by the Angel of happy 
 loves, little Louis was born. 
 He was a charming baby, pink and white, 
 with large black eyes, full of dreams. His 
 mother rocked him almost incessantly in her 
 
 i8 
 
Santa Claus’ Violin 
 
 arms, with tremors of wild joy, and his father 
 watched his sleep at night, for hours together, 
 awakened by hauntings of happiness and 
 paternal pride. 
 
 The child grew up and developed under 
 this double effusion of tenderness, just as some 
 delicate plant unfolds beneath the warm in- 
 fluence of the sun, and the caress of the 
 vernal breeze. He grew up full of grace and 
 gayety, always fondled and always adored ; 
 no crease of a rose leaf had ever disturbed his 
 sleep, nor had the lightest cloud overshadowed 
 the soft brightness of his life’s morning. He 
 was decidedly charming ; his smile seemed to 
 radiate ; the tone of his voice was like the 
 warbling of a bird. 
 
 At the age of two, he made remarks 
 of profound ingenuity. When he saw for 
 the first time the silvery half-circle of the 
 increasing moon, he called out as if in 
 pain : — 
 
 “ Quick, father ! A hammer and nails ; 
 the moon is broken.” 
 
 He was at the same time brave as a 
 paladin. 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “You must never go to the corner of the 
 street,” said his nurse to him one day. 
 
 “ Why not ? ” 
 
 “ Because there are savages there.” 
 “Savages?” he exclaimed, with his fist on 
 his hip, and a frown on his brow; “don’t be 
 afraid ; I’ll get my sword.” 
 
 On the other hand he would sometimes 
 lose himself for whole hours in strange 
 reveries. One evening, there was great alarm 
 in the house : the child had disappeared. 
 
 Full of anxiety, they looked for him vainly 
 right and left, in all the rooms, outside the 
 house, everywhere. There was no trace of 
 the little one. 
 
 It was late at night, and all were beginning 
 to lose their heads, when some one discovered 
 the child, alone on the balcony, with his chin 
 in his two hands and his gaze lost in the 
 open sky. 
 
 “ What on earth are you doing there ? ” 
 they asked.” 
 
 “ I am looking.” 
 
 “At what?” 
 
 “ Beautiful star.” 
 
 20 
 
Santa Claus’ Violin 
 
 But that which characterized him above all 
 was his passion for music : the sound of a 
 flute called forth his enthusiasm ; a flourish 
 of trumpets made him start like an electric 
 shock, and threw him into an ecstasy. 
 
 Let us add, by the way, that this sort of 
 frenzy followed him even to the school-benches, 
 where, at the age of eight or nine, the blast 
 of a bugle or the roll of a drum made him 
 irresistibly throw aside books and pencils 
 and fling himself into the street without the 
 slightest thought of asking leave, to follow 
 the first detachment of soldiers that was 
 passing. 
 
 But as it is with the baby alone that we 
 are concerned, let us return to the baby. 
 
 If ever a child was passionately loved by 
 his parents, it was Louis. But — the poor 
 parents ! — Heaven had a terrible ordeal in 
 store for them. 
 
 The child was now fully three and a-half 
 years old, and his mother discovered that a 
 small tumor which for two years had been 
 forming in his throat, in the region of the 
 larynx, was developing in an alarming manner. 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 To use a technical expression, too pedantic 
 perhaps, it was what is called in medical 
 phraseology — a sebaceous cyst. 
 
 As is well known, those serous bodies 
 are not generally attended with any real 
 danger ; but, in this case, the conditions were 
 peculiarly critical, owing to the proximity of 
 certain delicate vessels. The operation — 
 which sooner or later would be necessary — 
 might, if inconsiderately postponed, become 
 dangerous. 
 
 The paternal devotion, after having deferred 
 the cruel moment as long as possible, could 
 not hesitate any further, and a few days before 
 Christmas the surgeons were summoned. 
 
 With terrible anguish — need we say it ? 
 — the parents witnessed the dreadful prepara- 
 tions for what seemed to them the racking of 
 the little being they cherished so dearly. 
 
 The mother, shut up in her room, wept 
 every tear that could flow ; while the father, 
 in deep distress, and with bleeding heart, had 
 to secure the poor little one on the sly in 
 order to have him put under the influence 
 of an anaesthetic. 
 
 22 
 
Santa Claus’ Violin 
 
 And in this \va.y — yes, in full health and 
 frolicsome gayety, with his eyes beaming, 
 and ringing laughter on his lips — the dear 
 baby’s wrists were seized ; and in spite of his 
 struggles, he was made to inhale the loath- 
 some drug, until he fell back, as senseless 
 and pale as a corpse, on the table where 
 the surgeon’s knife was awaiting him. 
 
 Unfortunately, the operation was not so 
 successful as could have been desired. At 
 the most critical moment, the child was 
 seized by a convulsive cough, and this acci- 
 dent, impossible to hinder, was followed by 
 grave results. The cyst, instead of being 
 completely removed, could only be partly 
 extracted, and the wound had to be kept 
 open for the secretion of what remained, 
 by means of suppuration. 
 
 But we must abridge those painful details. 
 The parents, who had sought refuge in an 
 adjoining room, waited for the result in a 
 state of mind more easily imagined than 
 described. 
 
 “Well?” they both exclaimed at the same 
 
 time, with the sweat of agony on their brows, 
 
 23 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 as they rushed towards the family physician 
 who had superintended the operation. “Well?” 
 
 “ It is all over,” he replied gravely. 
 
 “ Ah ! and then . . . ? ” 
 
 “ All is going well,” he added, with an 
 air and tone which rather belied his words. 
 
 “ Ah ! doctor, doctor, if there is any 
 danger . . . ! ” 
 
 “ No, there is no danger .... for the 
 present at least. Only let the mother arm 
 herself with courage, for unremitting atten- 
 tion will be necessary, and, perhaps, for a 
 long time — provided no complications arise 
 • . . . ” he added with a shake of the head 
 betraying his uneasiness. “ At all events, 
 fever has to be warded off by all possible 
 means. The sick nurse has my written 
 prescription. I will come back this evening.” 
 
 In the evening the doctor came back. 
 
 He found the poor parents in utmost 
 despondency : a high fever had declared itself. 
 
 During three long days and three long 
 nights, the little martyr lay between life and 
 death. 
 
 “If he could but sleep! ...” said the 
 
 24 
 
Santa Claus’ Violin 
 
 doctor, who no longer took any trouble to 
 conceal his anxiet}’ ; “ if he could but sleep ! 
 
 . . . Sleep alone can save him ; unfortu- 
 natel}’, in his present state of weakness, it 
 would be exceedingly imprudent to admin- 
 ister to him an}' narcotic. We must wait for 
 everything from nature .... or Providence.” 
 
 It was agony to the poor mother, con- 
 fined to the bedside of her child. As for 
 the father, he wandered distracted about the 
 house, wringing his hands and longing to 
 dash his head against the walls. 
 
 His son ! his little darling ! his idol ! his 
 only child ! He accused himself of having 
 killed him, and cursed his fate in a paroxysm 
 of wild despair. 
 
 The child had had no sleep for over two 
 days. He was insensible to all that was 
 taking place around him, and the veiled 
 glances of his large, glassy eyes, consumed by 
 fever, wandered unconsciously through empty 
 space. 
 
 “To-morrow is Christmas-Day, my dar- 
 ling,” said the father, bending over the pillow 
 wet with his tears, and covering with 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 passionate kisses the burning little hand 
 which lay motionless on the bed, “ to-morrow 
 is Christmas-Day, and to-night Santa Claus 
 will go his rounds distributing his presents 
 among the little children who are lying asleep. 
 Your new shoes are on the hearth-stone — 
 there, just in the next room — you have only 
 to say what playthings you wish to have, and 
 if you sleep soundly, Santa Claus will bring 
 them to you, sure enough. Sleep ! will 
 you not ? ” 
 
 And the poor father turned away his head 
 to hide his tears and stifle his sobs. 
 
 “ What do you want Santa Claus to bring 
 3^ou ? Come, tell me, my treasure.” 
 
 “ A violin!” replied the child, with a gleam 
 of joy in his gaze. 
 
 “ A violin ? Well, Santa Claus, I am sure, 
 has some violins. Sleep well, then, and your 
 good Angel will tell him to bring you a fine 
 one.” 
 
 But the child did not sleep ; and the 
 doctor, who came to see him several times a 
 day was in despair. 
 
 “Ah! if he could but sleep! ...” he kept 
 
 26 
 
Santa Claus’ Violin 
 
 saying. “If he could sleep, were it for one 
 hour only.” 
 
 During the evening, the child motioned to 
 his father. 
 
 “ What is it, my dearest ? ” said the latter, 
 leaning over the bed to listen. 
 
 “ Can he play the violin ? ” asked the child 
 in a voice as feeble as a breath. 
 
 “ Whom do you mean, my pet ? ” 
 
 “ Santa Claus.” 
 
 The father rose at once, tapping his fore- 
 head. A sudden inspiration, an inspiration 
 from Heaven, had just passed through his 
 heart and brain. 
 
 “Yes, my love!” he exclaimed, pressing 
 the feverish hand of the child ; “ yes, my love ! 
 Santa Claus knows how to play the violin. 
 He can play it charmingly, too ; and if you 
 will only sleep, there, on your little pillow, 
 your Angel will have him play for you, and 
 you shall listen to him in a dream. Oh ! 
 how fine that will be I ” 
 
 And the poor father, with a last faint ray 
 of hope in his soul, went out on tip-toe, while 
 
 the mother, alone, knelt by the other side of 
 
 27 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 the bed, on which the little patient sat 
 up, opening large, steady eyes in the dim 
 light which glimmered through the transpar- 
 ency of the lamp-shade. 
 
 Night was coming on — the holy Christmas 
 night. 
 
 The bells began to chime in the lofty 
 towers in the distance. 
 
 But the child did not sleep. 
 
 The father, after an absence of about half 
 an hour, came in again. 
 
 “ I have just seen Santa Claus with his 
 basket full of toys,” he said, “ and amongst 
 them I have seen peeping out a jewel of a 
 violin. He cannot fail to be here in a 
 
 minute, for he was just coming out of a 
 neighbouring house. Let us lower the 
 lights ; and you, my darling, do shut your 
 eyes, and make, at least, a pretence to sleep.” 
 
 He was interrupted by a slight noise that 
 came from the drawing-room close by. 
 
 “ Hush ! it is he.” 
 
 The noise became more distinct : it seemed 
 as if some mysterious hand was secretly 
 tuning the strings of a violin. 
 
 28 
 
Santa Claus’ Violin 
 
 The sick child gave a start, and listened 
 eager!}'. One might have heard his little 
 heart beating in his breast. 
 
 Then followed a real enchantment. 
 
 Sounds of angelic purity floated through 
 the silence of the night. Fragments of 
 melodies of unsurpassed sweetness rippled 
 in the air. Accents of infinite suavity, 
 that seemed to emanate from the regions 
 of dreams, spread themselves in wandering 
 airs through the calm and restful shadows of 
 the room. 
 
 The hand of the child trembled in that of 
 his father, whose gaze, drowned in the twilight, 
 watched with feverish interest the varied 
 phases of surprise, joy and melting emotion 
 which revealed themselves in turn, on the 
 emaciated features of the little patient. 
 
 The latter kept listening. 
 
 For a moment the invisible bow seemed 
 to obey some new inspiration. The capricious 
 fancies of the prelude died away gradually, 
 and little by little, veiled themselves beneath 
 the texture of musical phrases, assuming a 
 
 more definite character. 
 
 29 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Melodies more clearly outlined began to 
 pour forth in the sonorous vibrations of the 
 instrument, and the ear could seize as it 
 were on the wing a whole series, or rather 
 an intertwined sequence, somewhat confused, 
 but still perfectly' perceptible, of those Christ- 
 mas carols, so impressive in their antique 
 simplicity — the work of unknown geniuses 
 who knew so well how to blend the two 
 poles of human life by causing at one and 
 the same time, childhood to smile and old 
 age to weep. 
 
 They all came out in turn, the good old 
 canticles of long ago, solemn, but ever 
 full of deep feeling : — “ fd, bergers, assein- 
 blons-nous ! ” — “ Nouvelle agr cable ! ” — “ II est 
 nc le divin Enfant ! ” — “ Dans cette etablel . . 
 
 “ Les anges dans nos campagnesi . . And that 
 “ Adeste fidelesP so broad in its waving har- 
 mony, and so thrilling with Christian poetry. 
 
 All these melodies succeeded one another, 
 fused in a marvelous whole, to which this 
 nightly scene of speechless grief lent a 
 character of intense and ineffable impres- 
 siveness. At length the child no longer 
 
 30 
 
Santa Claus’ Violin 
 
 moved, no longer trembled. The external 
 world had faded away for him : he was 
 
 literally entranced with ecstacy. 
 
 By degrees, the sounds becoming weaker 
 and weaker simplified themselves into’ a 
 sequel of modulations, lulling and sweet, 
 through which the ear guessed — almost heard 
 — the touching words of the popular carol : 
 
 Sitspendant letir sainte harmonie, 
 Lcs deux dtouuds se sont tus. 
 
 Car la douce voix de J/an'e 
 Chantait pour endorniir /dsus. 
 
 
 The father cast a glance on his child : 
 two big tears were flowing down upon the 
 little cheeks. 
 
 Then it was like the sighing of the breeze, 
 
 like the murmuring of flocking humming birds, 
 
 like the whisper of a stream amid the sedge. 
 
 31 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 With the softness of a caress, as it were, 
 to the ear, the wondrous ^■iolin sang, or 
 rather sighed forth the artless cradle-song 
 which had so often sent the baby to sleep 
 in the arms of his nurse: 
 
 C'cs/ la poulette grise 
 Qua pondit dans I'dpn'se, 
 
 E!!e a Jait un petit coco 
 Pour bdbe qui z'a p'aire dodo : 
 
 Dediche ! dodo! . . . 
 
 
 The little one shut his eyes, bowed his 
 head, and his shoulder buried itself softly in 
 the down of the pillow. Almost at the same 
 moment, another head fell back on the side 
 of the little bed. It was the poor mother, 
 worn out b}' her vigils, who sank to sleep 
 with a smile on her lips — a smile of infinite 
 thankfulness to God. 
 
 The father, all perplexed with hope and 
 
Santa Claus’ Violin 
 
 fear, rose as noiselessly as a phantom and 
 met the doctor at the half-opened door. 
 
 “ He sleeps ! ” he murmured, quite beside 
 himself; “he is saved, is he not?” 
 
 “ They are both saved ! ” replied the 
 physician, casting a glance into the sick 
 chamber. 
 
 And in a rapture of gratitude the once 
 despairing man burst in tears while he 
 clasped the two hands of the great artist, 
 Jehin-Prume, who had just replaced his violin 
 in its case. 
 
 3.1 
 
A Godsend 
 
 brush in the other, a young painter is 
 feverishly at work in front of a small camp 
 easel. 
 
 On his left, pinned to the frame of a 
 mirrored wardrobe, hangs an old canvas, about 
 twenty inches by thirty, all dark and tattered, 
 in the centre of which, through the be- 
 smoked tones of the clair-obscures, appear 
 the graceful form and roseate complexion of 
 an Infant Jesus resting on a cushion, the 
 brow haloed by vague lights softly reflected 
 from the glossy twining of fair and abundant 
 curls. 
 
 From time to time the painter lets his 
 right hand drop, and gazes at the picture 
 with an intensity suggestive of profound 
 admiration ; and again he resumes his task, 
 his brush passing between the mosaic of the 
 palette and the canvas with an accuracy of 
 movement which reveals the skilful and 
 experienced artist. 
 
 He is evidently painting a copy of the 
 beautiful Christ Child. 
 
 But why does he so often consult the 
 modest silver watch, the old fashioned chain 
 
 35 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 of which hangs from his waistcoat pocket ? 
 This we shall soon know. Meanwhile, let 
 us notice that his glance, with an expression 
 of triumph, falls also, now and then, on some 
 papers scattered on the small table beside 
 him, and let us claim the privilege of the 
 story-teller to ascertain what of interest those 
 papers contain. 
 
 Here is, to begin with, a stained envelope, 
 with broken seal, so rumpled, that it must 
 have been opened man’y times. It must also 
 have travelled a considerable distance, for 
 it bears a Canadian stamp, and its address 
 reads as follows : 
 
 Monsieur Maurice Flavigny, 
 
 A rtiste-peintre, 
 
 Paste Restante, 
 
 Paris, France. 
 
 Let us open the letter and read : 
 
 CONTRECOEUR, Nove7nber loth, 18^2. 
 
 My Dear Son, — A few words in haste to tell you how 
 happy your last letter has made me by announcing to 
 me your approaching return. Make haste, my dear 
 child. Alas ! I shall not be able to see you, but I 
 
 36 
 
A Godsend 
 
 shall hear you, and I shall press you to my heart, as 
 I did a longf time ago. 
 
 I am still the guest of Mile. d’Aubray, my little 
 Suzanne whom I love as a daughter, and who is good 
 enough to act as my secretary, since God has deprived 
 me of my poor sight. 
 
 Come soon, will you not ? Try and be with us by 
 Christmas. 
 
 Your old mother, who longs to embrace you, 
 
 SOPHIE FLAVIGNY. 
 
 There is also a telegram : 
 
 New York, December 22nd, i8j2. 
 
 To Maurice Flavigny, 
 
 Great Western Hotel, 
 
 Montreal, Canada. 
 
 If Murillo authentic and well preserved, will give ten 
 thousand dollars. See agent Victor Muller, 4 Little 
 Craig St. 
 
 CORNHILL & GRANGER. 
 
 Besides the telegram, bearing the same 
 signature, but dated a day later, is a letter 
 ordering a credit in favor of Maurice Fla- 
 vigny, on the Bank of Montreal, for ten 
 thousand dollars, payable to the order of 
 Victor Muller, Agent of the firm of Cornhill 
 & Granger, of New York. 
 
 37 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 This last letter the young artist has left 
 open on the table, within reach of his eye, 
 as if to convince himself at every turn that 
 he is not the victim of a delusion. 
 
 Ten thousand dollars ! A small fortune ! 
 He sees the paternal homestead redeemed ; 
 the good old mother saved from poverty ; 
 and, for himself, the necessaries of life, even 
 an honorable and happy comfort, until repu- 
 tation comes with its consequences in train. 
 
 He hardly can believe his own eyes. 
 Does he dream ? 
 
 II 
 
 And while blending his colors and hastily 
 brushing the canvas, Maurice Flavigny 
 reviews all the circumstances which have 
 lately favored him in such an exceptional 
 way, together with the events which preceded 
 them. 
 
 He pictures himself, five years before this 
 
 time, at the age of eighteen, bidding farewell 
 
 to his family, and starting at random for the 
 
 country of modern Art, in search of that 
 
 science which develops talent, and without 
 
 38 
 
A Godsend 
 
 which genius itself remains impotent and 
 blind. He remembers his long days of 
 feverish ambition, his weary nights devoted 
 to ungrateful tasks, the buffeting he encoun- 
 tered, his disappointments, his moments of 
 discouragement. He recalls the selfishness 
 of his masters, the jealousies of his comrades, 
 the humiliations he underwent, and all the 
 pangs of his wounded pride. He lives over 
 again his anguish, his doubt, his weariness, 
 his home longing, oh ! yes, his home longing, 
 in the heart of that monstrous city where, by 
 a cruel irony, all the pleasures seem to con- 
 spire together to invest one with the sense 
 of utter solitude. 
 
 The first two years had been comparatively 
 serene. Maurice Flavigny had been hard at 
 work, striving conscientiously, living modestly 
 on a small pension which came from his 
 father — a country notary, proprietor of two 
 small farms which yielded but a limited 
 revenue — and spending his leisure hours in 
 the museums, studying the great masters, and 
 endeavoring to learn from their immortal 
 masterpieces the secret of their inspiration. 
 
 39 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 He made rapid progress ; and already 
 glimmering hopes began to smile upon his 
 ambition, when a series of casualties over- 
 threw his fondest dreams and plunged him 
 into distress and despondency. 
 
 Misfortunes impossible to foresee had 
 assailed the paternal home. Unwise specula- 
 tions had dragged the old notary to complete 
 ruin. And on the very day upon which the 
 house where Maurice was born was sold by 
 judicial authority, his father died from grief 
 and apoplexy, leaving to his heirs nothing 
 but a life insurance policy barely sufficient 
 to prevent his wife, who had lost her sight, 
 from becoming an object * of public charity. 
 
 She had been succoured by the young 
 school-mistress of the neighborhood, the only 
 survivor of an old seigneurial family, who had 
 spontaneously offered her the hospitality of 
 one of the four rooms which constituted her 
 residence in the school-house. 
 
 All the details of these cruel events had 
 
 been communicated to him by the young 
 
 school-mistress herself, who had naturally to 
 
 hold the pen for her to whom the saddest 
 
 40 
 
A Godsend 
 
 of infirmities forbade all personal correspond- 
 ence. 
 
 Deprived of the paternal pension, the 
 young painter had been obliged to neglect 
 his studies, and to give himself up almost 
 exclusively to mercenary labor, in order to pro- 
 cure his daily bread. He became, like many 
 others, the victim of heartless mercantilism, 
 which, in Paris, as in other large cities, 
 speculates on needy talent and draws the 
 blood from the veins of poor young artists 
 in exchange for a morsel of food. 
 
 During two long years he strove and lived 
 miserably, without even succeeding, at the 
 price of the most enslaving toil, in saving 
 the sum necessary for his return home. 
 
 Then came the Franco-Prussian war, the 
 seige of Paris and the horrors of the Commune. 
 
 The young Canadian, full of devotion and 
 
 patriotism, had not hesitated ; he had valiantly 
 
 paid his debt of blood to the great Mother, 
 
 and had been wounded at the storming of 
 
 Buzenval, side by side with his master and 
 
 friend, Henri Regneault, fallen also beneath 
 
 the hail of German bullets. 
 
 41 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Then the long months of hospital ; 
 and afterwards the harness resumed, the 
 neck once more bent to the yoke to 
 recommence the desperate task. 
 
 As he recalls these long years of 
 distress, of hardship and sorrow, the young 
 painter bows his head, and a heart-rending 
 expression of woe pervades his features. 
 
 But suddenly his whole face radiates with 
 a beam of joy. One of his paintings 
 
 received and admired at the Exposition 
 Salon ; a rich amateur ; a brilliant sale ; his 
 debts paid, and his return to America, with 
 a future before him, at home, by the side of 
 his old mother ! 
 
 Unable to control his emotion, the young 
 man paces up and down the floor of the 
 room, and then stops in front of the table, 
 gazes for a long time upon the bank draft 
 — real, palpable, before him. After which he 
 returns to his work, murmuring in a tone 
 of supreme gratitude to God : 
 
 “And now, I am rich! . . Yes, rich I . . 
 And this after my last resource had disap- 
 peared, with that unfortunate pocket-book 
 
 42 
 
A Godsend 
 
 lost just as I set foot on my native land. 
 Was the hand of Providence ever more 
 visible ? ” 
 
 And the brush still hastens, fusing shadows, 
 softening outlines and heightening the effects 
 of light, till under the influence of feverish 
 inspiration, a marvelous intensity of life flashes 
 from the canvas, as the work advances, and 
 the picture emerges radiantly from the rough 
 draught. 
 
 Ill 
 
 But let us leave the artist at his work, 
 and relate the story of this lost pocket book. 
 
 Upon reaching the Bonaventure station by 
 the direct train from New York, Maurice 
 Flavigny had ordered his luggage to be 
 taken to a neighboring hotel, and had paid 
 the porter out of the small change Europeans 
 never fail to carry in their pockets for the 
 exigencies of the pourboire. 
 
 But, after reaching his room, the poor 
 fellow, with a feeling of despair one can 
 easily imagine, found that his pocket-book, 
 
 43 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 which contained all the money he had in the 
 world, was no longer in his possession. 
 
 All search was useless. Maurice was the 
 victim of a pickpocket, and was left with- 
 out even enough money to reach the village 
 where he was impatiently expected by his 
 mother, as poor as himself 
 
 Maurice Flavigny yielded to the inevi- 
 table, wept silently, then fell on his knees and 
 prayed. 
 
 The next morning some one knocked at 
 his door. 
 
 “ M. Flavigny?” 
 
 “That’s my name.” 
 
 “ A parcel for you.” 
 
 Much puzzled, the young man took the 
 package and opened it. An exclamation of 
 joy burst from his lips. There was his 
 pocket-book together with a parcel the size 
 of his arm, and a letter. 
 
 With his hand trembling with surprise, 
 Maurice broke the seal, and read the follow- 
 ing extraordinary epistle : 
 
 Sir, — The person who writes this is a stranger. 
 Last night, he saw a pocket-book fall from your 
 
 44 
 
A Godsend 
 
 pocket, and picked it up. If he returns it untouched, 
 nothing’ is left for him but to starve. In consequence, 
 he takes the liberty, in sending it back to you, to 
 retain fifty dollars out of the hundred and ten which it 
 contains. But, as he is not a thief, and has just 
 learned, from the register of your hotel, that you are a 
 painter, he leaves you in exchange an object which is 
 useless to him in this country, but which, you can 
 judge for yourself, is certainly worth the sum he has 
 retained, and even more. He came from Quebec six 
 weeks ago on foot •, and finding himself endowed with 
 very little disposition for that mode of travelling, will 
 purchase a railroad ticket for Chicago with your 
 money. God preserve you from the necessity of bor- 
 rowing by such a process. 
 
 No signature. 
 
 Maurice Flavigny, at once relieved and 
 perplexed, untied the parcel, and discovered 
 the picture which we have just seen him 
 copying. 
 
 He examined it rather indifferently at 
 first, believing it to be like so many other 
 pretended “masters,” a perfectly worthless 
 copy. But the more attention he gave it, 
 the more he felt his interest awakened. It 
 was something after all. No mistake, it 
 was something! A genuine piece of old 
 
 45 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 art ; a master’s work ; a masterpiece per- 
 haps. 
 
 “ What can it be ? ” he said with intense 
 interest. 
 
 He spread open the canvas, took it near 
 the window, surveyed it at a distance, then 
 again more closely. Suddenly a flash of 
 light passed through his mind : 
 
 “ Can it be possible ! ” he cried ... “ An 
 
 Infant-Jesus by Murillo! . . . Yes! this 
 smoothness of tone, those aerial aifid waving 
 shadows, those warm reflections of light, the 
 moistness of the eyes and lips, the grace of 
 the modelling, the morbidezza of the flesh, 
 the harmony of the whole, both ideal and 
 realistic, all the characteristics of the old 
 
 Spanish master ! Every dash of the 
 
 brush marks the signature. But here? By 
 what miracle? - . . And, I am the owner of 
 this treasure. Oh ! my dear mother . . .” 
 And Maurice wiped his eyes full of tears. 
 Passing through New York, he had made 
 the acquaintance of wealthy dealers in paint- 
 ings, who had said to him : “ There must be 
 
 some works of the old masters In Canada, 
 
 46 
 
A Godsend 
 
 among the ancient French families. If you 
 ever come across some of them the owner 
 be willing to dispose of, please think of us.” 
 “Holy Virgin!” cried he, “in three days 
 from now, it will be Christmas ; if I sell this 
 picture I vow to paint a copy of it for the 
 creche of my village ! ” 
 
 IV 
 
 To paint the copy in two days was a 
 hard task indeed, but it was accomplished. 
 The original was delivered to the agent of 
 Cornhill & Granger. The price agreed upon 
 was paid, and with the copy he had made, 
 neatly framed, Flavigny, the afternoon before 
 Christmas Day, crossed the river at Longueuil, 
 and there hired a conveyance to drive him 
 down to Contrecoeur. 
 
 In the evening we find him knocking at 
 the door of the presbytery, his votive offering 
 in hand. The Cure, a good soul with some 
 artistic tastes, delighted with the godsend, 
 welcomed with extreme courtesy his parish- 
 ioner, whom he knew by name only, 
 
 47 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 as he had been in the place but a short 
 time. 
 
 He greatly admired the little chef-d'oeuvre 
 in which he found a kind of “ familiar 
 appearance,” he said ; and an hour later the 
 new painting, adorned with flowers and ever- 
 greens, and suspended on the background of 
 the sacred shrine of the parish church, 
 above the traditional manger, awaited the 
 midnight bell to radiate in the glow of 
 lamps and wax-tapers, 
 
 Maurice Flavigny left the presbytere of 
 Contrecoeur with an order for a large paint- 
 ing of the Holy Trinity, the patron of the 
 parish. One can imagine what a hymn of 
 gratitude rang in the heart of this youth of 
 twenty-three, who, on this Christmas night, 
 so joyful, so solemn, so impressive to all, was 
 carrying both happiness and wealth to her 
 he loved best in the world, — his old mother, 
 poor and blind, whom he had not seen for 
 five long years. 
 
 Maurice found her at the school-house, 
 attended by only a young maid; the school- 
 mistress, who was at the same time the 
 
 48 
 
A Godsend 
 
 organist of the parish, having had to spend 
 the day in the vicinity of the church for the 
 rehearsal of the Christmas music, at a cousin’s 
 of hers, a young physician recently settled in 
 the village. 
 
 V 
 
 We shall not describe the meeting of the 
 mother and son. Such happy scenes of over- 
 flowing tenderness cannot be depicted. The 
 human heart is so constituted, that intensity 
 of joy, like sorrow, naturally resolves itself in 
 tears. Long did the reunited ones weep in 
 each other’s arms. And then — oh! the 
 mysterious impulse of the soul which, in 
 happiness as in distress, leads us to the feet 
 of Him who is the source of all felicity as 
 He is of all consolation ! — the poor invalid 
 took her son by the hand : 
 
 “ Come, Maurice,” said she, feeling her 
 way as best she could towards a part of the 
 bare wall, where her unseeing eyes seemed 
 to contemplate some invisible object, “come, 
 kneel down with me before the Infant- 
 Jesus I ” 
 
 49 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “What Infant-Jesus ? ” asked the young 
 artist, not noticing the significant beckoning 
 of the little maid, busy with the dressing of 
 the table. 
 
 “The Infant-Jesus of Suzanne, there, 
 on the wall, the old painting she loves so 
 well.” 
 
 “ I don’t know what you mean,” said 
 Maurice, whose eyes, moving to and fro 
 between the wall and his mother, still did 
 not /catch the glance of the little maid. 
 
 “ Why ! don’t you see the picture on the 
 wall ? ” 
 
 “ Surely, no,” said the young man, looking 
 at his mother with anxious surprise. 
 
 “The Infant-Jesus is not there? .... 
 The Infant-Jesus is gone! . . . Oh! pity 
 on me ! I dread to understand ! ” 
 
 And the poor blind woman sank on her 
 chair, sobbing. 
 
 The little maid was questioned by Maurice, 
 and after some hesitation, she explained all. 
 During the last illness of Mme. Flavigny 
 Mile. Suzanne, who had become entirely 
 destitute, and knew not where to find money 
 
A Godsend 
 
 for the medicines ordered by the doctor of 
 a neighboring village — for there was no 
 physician at Contrecoeur at that time — had 
 sold the old painting to a stranger, a passer- 
 by who had entered the house by chance. 
 She had received a good price for it though, 
 said the maid. Five dollars ! Which did not 
 prevent her eyes being red with tears when 
 she parted with her treasure. She had warned 
 the little maid not to say anything about 
 the matter, especially to Mme. Flavigny, 
 who, being blind, imagined all the time that 
 the Infant-Jesus was in its usual place. 
 
 “ Now,” entreated the poor girl in con- 
 clusion, “ don’t tell Mile. Suzanne I have 
 betrayed her secret ; she would not scold 
 me, she is too kind for that ; but it would 
 grieve her. Would it not, Madame?” 
 
 Maurice’s mother wept silently, while he, 
 preyed upon by a strange preoccupation, re- 
 flected profoundly, pacing the room up and 
 down, from one end to the other. After a 
 moment he spoke ; 
 
 “What kind of a painting was it?” he 
 asked. 
 
 51 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ Oh ! merely old rubbish,” answered his 
 mother, “but the child had a love for it. It 
 was a treasure to her. It was all she had 
 inherited from her family — one of the oldest 
 in Quebec ; the last remnant of their former 
 wealth, which she held from her grandmother, 
 who left it to her, saying that it would bring 
 her good luck. . . And imagine, the dear 
 little one sacrificed it for me. . . Oh ! 
 Maurice, Maurice, what an angel ! . . And 
 so beautiful, they say ! . . ” 
 
 Maurice still reflected ; at last he said : 
 
 “ What size was the painting ? ” 
 
 “About three feet by two,” answered the 
 little maid. 
 
 “An Infant-Jesus ? ” 
 
 “Yes, with nice little golden locks, and 
 lying on a silk pillow.” 
 
 Maurice grew pale. 
 
 “ On a dark ground ? ” asked he with 
 quivering voice. 
 
 “Yes, sir, very dark!” 
 
 52 
 
A Godsend 
 
 VI 
 
 For some time past, the tinkling of sleigh 
 bells, mingled with the grinding of runners on 
 the snow, hardened by the cold, had been 
 heard at intervals. It was the parishioners 
 hastening to church to prepare themselves for 
 Communion, at the mysterious and poetic 
 nocturnal mass. 
 
 Suddenly : 
 
 “ Whoa ! . . Whoa ! . . Stop ! " 
 
 Voices were heard at the door. One 
 sleigh, two sleighs just halted. 
 
 “Who is it?” asked Mme. Flavigny. 
 
 “It is the Gendreau and the Benoit, 
 Madame.” 
 
 “ Our old farmers, Maurice ; you knew 
 them ; good people who do not forget me,” 
 she said with satisfaction. 
 
 “Walk in, messieurs et dames, walk in!” 
 
 “ Good evening to all ! ” exclaimed the 
 new comers. 
 
 “ Bonsoir, la compagme ! How is your 
 
 health, Madame Flavigny ? ” 
 
 S3 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ Tres bien ! It is you, Monsieur and 
 Madame Gendreau? It is you, Julie? And 
 your husband, I suppose ? . . ” 
 
 “Marcel Benoit, pour vous servir !" 
 
 “Yes, Madame," intervened Gendreau, who 
 was somewhat of an orator, having been a 
 candidate for municipal honors, “ here are 
 Marcel Benoit and Philippe Gendreau, your 
 old farmers, who never forget their good 
 mistress, and who come with their wives, 
 also present, to offer you their Christmas 
 greetings, with all the compliments of the 
 season, as big people say." 
 
 “Thank you, thank you, my good friends!" 
 
 “ More than that, Marne Flavigny, we have 
 just heard that your long expected son has 
 returned home to-day, and as you are con- 
 fined to your house, If you will allow it, we 
 shall join here and have a good supper 
 together after the midnight mass." 
 
 “You are too kind, indeed," said Maurice, 
 who, absorbed as he was In his reflections, 
 had remained aside. “ Monsieur and Madame 
 Gendreau, Monsieur and Madame Benoit, I 
 am deeply touched with your thoughtfulness," 
 
 54 
 
A Godsend 
 
 he continued. “I know you have been ex- 
 cellent friends to my poor mother, and I am 
 happy to have this opportunity of thanking 
 you for it. As to the supper. . . ” 
 
 “This is no great place for feasting,” inter- 
 rupted Mme. Flavigny. 
 
 “Tut! tut! . . you have nothing to say 
 on the subject. We have brought all that is 
 wanted. We know how it is when visitors 
 are not expected.” 
 
 “Come, Lisette ! Come, Julie!” exclaimed 
 Marcel Benoit, “ show your stock of supplies. 
 Here, look at this ! Two hampers full : meat 
 pies, tarts, a chine-piece of fresh pork, a 
 turkey, and croquignoles* real Christmas cro- 
 quignoles, as we know you like them, 
 Marne Flavigny.” 
 
 “Yes, yes, yes! but we must not forget 
 to mention something else,” added Philippe 
 Gendreau with a significant wink and strum- 
 ming lightly on the round fat belly of a 
 little stone jar; “here is some Jamaica of 
 the good old time, Monsieur Maurice. The 
 very thing your father used to like. I 
 
 Doughnuts. 
 
 55 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 thought this would please you, and I hope 
 it will suit your taste. Poor Monsieur le 
 notairel it is the remainder of a small keg 
 he made me a present of on my wedding 
 day.” 
 
 Maurice Flavigny, moved to the heart by 
 this simple friendliness, passed around from 
 one group to the other, silently pressing the 
 hands of each person, too much affected to 
 otherwise express his gratitude. 
 
 “ That’s all right, then ! ” said Philippe 
 Gendreau in his resounding voice. 
 
 “ That’s all right ! ” repeated Marcel Ben- 
 oit, his faithful echo. 
 
 "■La Louise will come,” continued Gen- 
 dreau, “ to help the little cre'ature to set the 
 table. As for us, let us go. The last bell 
 will ring soon. To church first, and the 
 re'veillon afterwards. Monsieur Maurice, there 
 is a place for you in my cariole at the side 
 of my wife. But, be careful, mind you, for 
 she is somewhat ticklish.” 
 
 Maurice, who was not a stranger to those 
 
 jovial and familiar manners, heartily accepted 
 
 the invitation, and after having put on his 
 
 56 
 
A Godsend 
 
 heavy winter wraps, impressed a long and 
 warm kiss on his mother’s brow. 
 
 “ A bientdt, my son ! ” she said ; “ go and 
 thank the good Infant-Jesus for alT the 
 happiness he is bestowing upon us this 
 evening. YOT wiTl see Suzanne ; tell her 
 that she is expected here without fail after 
 mass with her cousin, the new doctor, and 
 his wife, if she is not afraid to venture out 
 in the cold.” 
 
 “ Ho ! ho ! . . Get in, get in ! Let us lose 
 no time, nos gens!"' 
 
 It was the thundering voice of Philippe 
 Gendreau giving the signal for the start. 
 
 “ All aboard ! all aboard, les creatures ! ” 
 
 It was Marcel Benoit, who, according to 
 his custom, seconded his comrade’s motion. 
 
 VII 
 
 And gling! . . glang ! . . diriding! 
 
 Here are the two joyful sleigh loads mov- 
 ing off at full speed over the creaking snow, 
 under the stars glittering on their blue back- 
 ground like burning points of steel. 
 
 57 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Gling, glang, glong ! . . diriding, ding! 
 
 There they go, the fiery little Canadian 
 horses, snorting in the mist, tossing their 
 rimy manes, and exhibiting their well-known 
 mettle, — Maurice Flavigny and the farmers’ 
 wives, warmly wrapped up in the depths of 
 the carioles, while, standing in the front, well 
 belted up in their wild-cat overcoats, with their 
 fur caps pulled down to their eyes, icicles on 
 their moustaches, and the reins passed around 
 their necks, Philippe Gendreau and Marcel 
 Benoit vigorously beat their bodies to warm 
 their fingers, for the cold is fierce and 
 bitter. 
 
 And gling ! . . gling, diriding I . . 
 
 Still they go, the brave little Canadian 
 ponies, excited by more solemn and distant 
 sounds which the wind brings to them in 
 intermittent peals : 
 
 Dang 1 dong I . . 
 
 It is the great bells this time. The big 
 parish bells which sing their joyous carillon in 
 the night from the lantern-shaped steeple of 
 the old church of Contrecoeur, the tall win- 
 dows of which appear in the distance, their 
 
 58 
 
A Godsend 
 
 rosy gleam contrasting with the pale lights 
 of the outside. 
 
 As Maurice Flavigny entered the church 
 and walked towards Philippe Gendreau’s pew, 
 placed in the front of the Virgins Chapel, 
 face to face with the manger-shrine, a voice, 
 sweet but powerful, a woman’s voice full of 
 emotion, accompanied by the strains of a 
 harmonium artistically played, intoned the old 
 carol often sung by our ancestors, that old 
 hymn so touching in its ancient form and 
 simplicity : 
 
 bergers, assetnblons-nous ! 
 
 Was it only the impression which every 
 natural and sensitive heart feels at the sight, 
 after long absence, of the old village church 
 where he was baptized, where he received 
 his first communion, and which echoed his 
 infant prayers, or was it the effect produced 
 on him by this silver-toned voice which he 
 
 59 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 heard for the first time ? At all events, the 
 young stranger knelt, or rather fell on his 
 knees, hiding his face in his hands, his 
 breast shaken by tumultuous sensations 
 hitherto unknown to him. 
 
 When he raised his eyes, his copy of 
 the Infant-Jesus was before him. From the 
 midst of flowers, gold ornaments, and lamps 
 of varied colors, the soft eyes looked upon 
 him with an ineffable smile. Then, two big 
 tears glided over his cheeks. He felt as 
 though in a dream — and, lulled by the 
 simple and impressive chants of this holy 
 night full of sacred mystery, his thoughts 
 involuntarily gathered in sweet memories and 
 indefinite hopes which invaded his heart 
 overflowing with emotion and happiness. 
 
 By degrees, the face of the divine bam- 
 bino, which he did not cease to contemplate 
 with the pride and interest of an artist, 
 seemed transformed into the delicate features 
 of a fair young girl with virginal brow, and 
 eyes soft and caressing, in their supreme 
 expression of kindness and sweet melancholy. 
 
 The whole scene also changed gradually. 
 
 6o 
 
A Godsend 
 
 Maurice saw this young girl, brought up in 
 luxury, but condemned to work for a living, 
 sharing her home with a poor, blind and 
 helpless woman, and becoming her guardian 
 angel, her daughter, her nurse. More than 
 this, he saw her giving up for a trifle a 
 family relic, a sacred keepsake, a master- 
 piece beloved and venerated, to save the 
 poor invalid stranger. For he doubted no 
 longer, the Infant-Jesus the copy of which 
 had seemed familiar to the parish priest — 
 that painting which had fallen into his hands 
 by such an extraordinary hazard — that 
 Murillo which had enriched him — could be 
 nothing else but the old heirloom secretly 
 sold to save his mother. 
 
 And this voice which so profoundly 
 stirred all the fibres of his heart, was it 
 not the voice of this young girl, of this 
 modest benefactress — that of Suzanne ? . . . 
 And this name, half uttered, expired on his 
 lips, like the most exquisite, but at the same 
 time the most bewildering music. 
 
 6i 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 VIII 
 
 The communion drew near. The voice 
 which had just modulated the last notes of 
 a touching pastoral became silent. A dying 
 strain of harmony floated a moment in the 
 sonorous depths of the arches. Then Maurice 
 saw passing at his left hand, to approach the 
 communion table, a fair, tall, young maiden, 
 with an unusual air of distinction, modestly 
 dressed in black, the sight of whom deeply 
 moved him. 
 
 She knelt down, received the Sacrament, 
 and then went and reverently prostrated her- 
 self before the Christmas shrine. But when 
 she rose and lifted her eyes to make the 
 sign of the Cross on her breast, she uttered 
 a cry of surprise, and tottered. 
 
 With a bound Maurice was at her side, 
 and supported her in his arms. 
 
 A few minutes later, they were at the 
 doctor’s house ; but happily, Suzanne — for 
 the reader has, no doubt, recognized the 
 identity of the young girl — Suzanne did not 
 
 62 
 
A Godsend 
 
 require his aid, the fresh outdoor air having 
 completely restored her from the shock 
 she had experienced at the sight of the 
 painting. 
 
 When Maurice and Suzanne’s cousin met, 
 their surprise was manifested by two excla- 
 mations : 
 
 “ Gustave ! ” 
 
 “ Maurice ! ” 
 
 “By what chance, I wonder?” 
 
 “This is my home; and yourself? when 
 did )'ou return ? ” 
 
 “ I arrived this very night.” 
 
 “Is it possible? and what brings you 
 here ? ” 
 
 “ My mother. She lives with . . . Mile. 
 D’Aubray, if I am not mistaken?” said 
 Maurice, bowing to the young lady. 
 
 “With Suzanne?” 
 
 “ Yes, cousin,” intervened the school-mis- 
 tress, “ the blind lady I spoke to you about 
 is this gentleman’s mother, it appears.” 
 
 “ What a coincidence ! I have been 
 requested to give her my professional 
 
 attendance.” 
 
 63 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ In fact, you were an oculist, at Paris ? ” 
 commented Maurice. 
 
 “ Exactly.” 
 
 “ Ah ! my dear friend, if you could ever 
 )> 
 
 “ I understand ; you may depend upon 
 me. I will do my best.” 
 
 “ Thanks, but how is it . . . ? ” 
 
 “ That an oculist should be at Contre- 
 coeur instead of Montreal ? Family interests, 
 dear friend. The health of my wife demands 
 country air — for I am married, my good 
 fellow, married for the last six months. But 
 I shall tell you all this on our way ; I 
 have just ordered my horse for the purpose 
 of driving Suzanne home, and there is a 
 place for you in the sleigh — with your per- 
 mission, cousin ? ” 
 
 “ Good ! let us drive on, then ! ” inter- 
 rupted Philippe Gendreau, who had just 
 appeared on the threshold of the door, whip 
 in hand, his faithful Achates at his heels. 
 
 “ Let us drive on ! ” repeated Marcel 
 Benoit, “ the women are ready.” 
 
 “You know we take the riveillon together, 
 
 64 
 
A Godsend 
 
 doctor,” added Philippe Gendreau ; “ it’s 
 
 understood.” 
 
 “ It’s understood, doctor,” re-echoed Marcel 
 Benoit. 
 
 “ Ah ! well,” said the doctor, “ there is 
 a reveillon, eh? That’s another thing. You 
 must wait a second, then. I shall have to 
 do my share in it.” 
 
 A moment later, the whole party drove 
 away at full speed. 
 
 IX 
 
 On entering the school-house, the young 
 mistress hastened to kiss Maurice’s mother. 
 It was a daily habit ; but whether from the 
 effect of one day’s absence, or something else, 
 the blind woman could not help noticing 
 that “her little Suzanne” kissed her with 
 unusual fondness that evening. 
 
 “ Oh ! such a beautiful midnight mass as 
 we have had, Marne Flavigny ! ” exclaimed 
 the farmers and their wives, Philippe 
 Gendreau, Marcel Benoit, Lisette and Julie, 
 surrounding the table burdened by a weight 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 of substantial and succulent country dishes, 
 interspersed with lofty pyramids of croquig- 
 noles in their dress of powdered sugar — the 
 traditional Christmas cake of French Canada. 
 
 And after a grace reverently pronounced 
 by the blind lady for the blessing of that 
 table around which sat all that were dear 
 to her in this world, the feast began amidst 
 laughter and joyful exclamations. 
 
 “Yes, a splendid midnight mass!” said 
 the doctor. “ Did you notice in what par- 
 ticularly good spirits the Cure seemed to 
 be?” 
 
 “ And what perfect singing I ” timidly 
 added Maurice. 
 
 Suzanne raised her eyes to his. The 
 painter was seated by his mother ; and the 
 young girl had modestly taken a place at 
 the side of her cousin at the other end of 
 the table. 
 
 “Yes, yes, yes, that’s all very well!” 
 
 cried out Philippe Gendreau, “ but in the 
 
 meanwhile it’s long time between drinks. 
 
 Ladies and gentlemen, sauf vof respect, 
 
 Marne Flavigny, don’t you think we ought 
 
 66 
 
A Godsend 
 
 to drink a little toast between ourselves, 
 were it only to have a short speech from 
 Monsieur Maurice ? " 
 
 “ A capital idea ! ” emphasized Marcel 
 Benoit, never too late when called upon 
 to favor the views of his friend and can- 
 didate. 
 
 “ Well, then,” interposed the doctor, has- 
 tening to open a parcel he had left behind 
 on entering the house, “if that be so, here 
 is the moment for my surprise.” 
 
 And he exhibited two sealed bottles, 
 which — no matter what may be the opinion 
 of the reader — did not seem too much out 
 of place on the table of the humble school- 
 house of Contrecoeur. 
 
 “ Champagne, upon my word ! ” exclaimed 
 Maurice. 
 
 “ Yes, champagne, and not bad champagne 
 either,” cried the doctor, with the nod of a 
 connoisseur. 
 
 “ A real banquet, then.” 
 
 “Yes, the remainder of one tendered to 
 me on the eve of my marriage, by my col- 
 leagues of the Faculty, my good fellow. It 
 
 67 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 is a joyous circumstance added to your 
 happy home coming.” 
 
 And the Doctor, after having popped the 
 corks, filled the glasses and raised his own, 
 saying : 
 
 “ My friends, to the health of Madame 
 Flavigny first, and then to that of my brave 
 comrade, Maurice, who, by a happy coinci- 
 dence, joins us on this Christmas night.” 
 
 “ Merry Christmas ! ” cried out all the 
 guests, rising and touching their glasses 
 across the table. 
 
 Meanwhile, Suzanne had disappeared. 
 
 The recipient of this cordial toast rose to 
 his feet while the other guests resumed their 
 seats. After having emptied his glass, 
 Maurice opened his lips to utter a few 
 words of thanks : 
 
 “ My friends,” he began — 
 
 But he stopped. A melodious voice, the 
 same which had so much impressed the 
 young artist on . his entrance into the 
 church, one of those voices which come 
 from and go to the heart, a voice which 
 
 conveyed by its freshness a peculiar serenity 
 
 68 
 
A Godsend 
 
 of expression, sounded from the adjoining 
 room, accompanied by the sweet and trem- 
 bling notes of a melodeon. 
 
 The voice sang : 
 
 Nouvelle agriable ! 
 
 
 f — I' — — i 
 
 rH 
 
 
 J 11 — * ’ :_J 
 
 t- ^ f ^ 1 
 
 >77 — 1- r — m \ • 1 f- 
 
 ^ 7 ^- 5 ^ 
 
 
 
 — a. — 
 
 The last notes of the couplet raised a 
 salvo of applause. 
 
 Merry Christmas ! ” cried the joyous 
 company again and again. 
 
 Maurice kissed his weeping mother. 
 Suzanne had resumed her seat at the table, 
 and bowed blushingly under the gaze full of 
 caressing emotion with which the son of 
 Mme. Flavigny enveloped her. A current of 
 mysterious affinities floated in the air. In a 
 single moment two hearts held entrancing 
 communion ; most sacred compact which the 
 Angel of Love signs in the face of God, 
 with a smile on his lips. 
 
 69 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 X 
 
 Maurice tried to resume his speech : 
 
 “ My friends,” said he, “ you have been 
 drinking the healths of my mother and my- 
 self . . ” 
 
 He was interrupted once more : 
 
 “Wait a minute, here am I!” cried the 
 joyous voice of a new comer. 
 
 A general outburst of surprise followed : 
 
 ^'■Monsieur le cure!" 
 
 And every one rose with respect to greet 
 the beloved and venerated pastor of the 
 parish. 
 
 “Yes,” said the priest, who held under 
 his arm a somewhat voluminous object ; “yes, 
 Madame Flavigny ; yes, Mademoiselle Suz- 
 anne, it is I, who asks your leave to share 
 in your joy.” 
 
 “Bravo! bravo. Monsieur le cure! Come 
 and have a seat with us at the table.” 
 
 “ Certainly, my children ; but first allow 
 me to furnish my own share towards the 
 general rejoicing.” 
 
 70 
 
A Godsend 
 
 Whereupon the good priest exhibited, to 
 the admiration of all, the object he had 
 under his arm, and which was nothing else 
 but the copy of the Murillo so fondly 
 painted by Maurice, 
 
 “My Infant-Jesus ! ” exclaimed Suzanne, 
 bewildered. “My Infant-Jesus! . . Yes, it is 
 He ; it was not a dream. . . And quite 
 new. . , Revived, radiant. . . How can it 
 be?” 
 
 “ Mademoiselle,” said the good priest, “ I 
 have just heard that there were for you some 
 dear family remembrances and a touching 
 tale of devotion attached to the original of 
 this picture. You deserve that at least the 
 copy should be yours, and I made it a duty 
 to present it myself this Christmas night. 
 The parish owes you more than this for all 
 the services you render to our church from 
 one year’s end to the other.” 
 
 “ Merry Christmas ! ” cried again all the 
 voices, while Suzanne, with folded hands, 
 and still overcome with her surprise, said : 
 “ Monsieur le cur^^ explain. It is not a 
 dream. . . It is a miracle, is it not?” 
 
 7 * 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “Yes, my child,” answered the cur6, “a 
 miracle of artistic skill. Ask my new 
 parishioner. Monsieur Maurice, who now 
 must do his part towards concealing the 
 theft I have committed to the prejudice of 
 my cloth, and without the knowledge of my 
 more virtuous church-wardens.” 
 
 The young lady slowly turned towards 
 Maurice and repaid to the young man the 
 gaze with which he had caressed her a 
 moment ago. After having divined, they 
 understood each other. The sweetest emotion 
 filled their two souls. 
 
 “Well, now, d table I d table I'' cried 
 Philippe Gendreau ; “ we are only beginning.” 
 Another voice echoed : 
 
 “ A table ! ” 
 
 Needless to ask if it was that of Marcel 
 Benoit. 
 
 XI 
 
 “ Monsieur Maurice, I congratulate you 
 
 on your happy return,” said the good priest, 
 
 emptying the glass tendered to him by the 
 
 72 
 
A Godsend 
 
 doctor ; “ God bless you in your ways, and 
 keep you ever worthy of the pious mother 
 he has favored you with.” 
 
 “ Thank you, Monsieur le cure^ for your 
 good wishes,” said Maurice, speaking in a 
 particularly serious tone ; “ I shall try to 
 prove to you, this very moment, that I 
 deserve them,” 
 
 And leaving his seat, he passed around 
 the table, and laid a large white envelope 
 before the young school-mistress, saying : 
 
 “ Mademoiselle, this envelope contains a 
 bank draft for ten thousand dollars ; it is 
 a sum which I restore to its owner.” 
 
 “ Eh ? ” 
 
 “ What ? ” 
 
 “ How is that ? ” 
 
 “ Ten thousand dollars ! ” 
 
 “ What does this mean ? ” 
 
 “ It means, my friends,” answered Maurice, 
 “ that the original of the painting you have 
 just admired, belonged to Mademoiselle ; 
 that it was the work of a great master; that 
 it fell into my hands by chance, or rather by 
 an interposition of Providence ; that I sold it 
 
 73 
 
Christinas in French Canada 
 
 for ten thousand dollars ; and that I simply 
 remit the price to whom it is due.” 
 
 “ But, sir,” said Suzanne, whom so many 
 emotions had rendered pale and trembling, 
 “you do not owe me anything. The picture 
 no longer belonged to me ; I had sold it.” 
 
 “ Oh ! no. Mademoiselle, you had not sold 
 it. Like the good angel that you are, you 
 had sacrificed that family relic which was 
 so dear to you, in order to help my poor, 
 sick and forsaken mother.” 
 
 “No matter. Monsieur. Even supposing 
 such a charitable action on my part, I cannot 
 be considered as the owner of an object to 
 which I have no claim whatever.” 
 
 “ Mademoiselle . . .” 
 
 ''Non, Monsieur, I cannot take the 
 money,” said Suzanne, returning the envel- 
 ope to the young man ; “ it is not mine.” 
 
 “ Then here, mother,” said Maurice, placing 
 the paper in the hands of the invalid ; “ give 
 it to her yourself, since she will not accept 
 anything from me ? ” 
 
 “ Maurice, you are worthy of your father,” 
 
 said the good old woman. 
 
 74 
 
A Godsend 
 
 And addressing Suzanne : 
 
 “ My child,” said she, “ take this money, 
 it is yours ; it comes as the accomplishment 
 of your grandmother’s prediction ; you 
 remember, she said the old painting would 
 bring you good luck. You have taken care 
 of me, you have rescued me in my distress, 
 you sat at my bed-side, you have saved my 
 life ; God rewards you for it by the hand of 
 my son, and through the unconscious object 
 which was the instrument of your charity. 
 Take this money.” 
 
 “ No, Madame, it is useless to insist,” said 
 Suzanne, resolutely. “The money is not 
 mine.” 
 
 “ But it is due to you.” 
 
 “ Madame Flavigny,” said the girl, proudly, 
 “ even though I had some title to your grati- 
 tude it would be no reason for me to accept 
 the price of a service rendered, would it ? ” 
 
 “ And as for me, Mademoiselle,” inter- 
 vened Maurice, “ I cannot keep the money 
 which belongs to you. To enrich myself 
 through your sacrifice when I am already so 
 greatly indebted to your kindness would 
 
 75 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 be an act of meanness which would make 
 me despicable in my own eyes. Do accept, 
 I beseech you . . . Suzanne ! ” 
 
 He stopped, extremely confused at having 
 dared to utter those two syllables which had 
 so far ascended his heart only to expire on 
 his lips. “ Do accept,” he insisted, “ for your 
 happiness and ours ! ” 
 
 “ Impossible, Monsieur Maurice,” answered 
 the young lady hiding her face in her hands. 
 “ The money is yours ; I shall never accept 
 it . . . never ! . . .” 
 
 Maurice let his arms fall helplessly 
 by his side, and threw a glance around, 
 as if to seek for advice. What was to be 
 done ? 
 
 “ Monsieur le cure, speak ! ” besought the 
 poor blind mother. 
 
 The two young people were standing 
 facing each other, with downcast eyes, and 
 in painful embarrassment, both perplexed and 
 grieved in the contemplation of the unex- 
 pected wealth, fallen from heaven, but which 
 neither of them could touch without a 
 
 capitulation both of pride and conscience. 
 
 76 
 
A Godsend 
 
 “Well, monsieur le curi . . ,?” said one 
 of the by-standers. 
 
 “ My good friends,” said the priest, “ the 
 case is really a difficult one , . . Neverthe- 
 less, since God has sent this treasure, there 
 ought to be some means of . . . The fact 
 is that there is one means . . . but . . 
 
 '’^Monsieur le cure, I understand you,” 
 interrupted the doctor, joyously. “ You 
 have discovered the true and only means 
 of making matters right. There is no other 
 . . . And if, by chance, Mme. Flavigny had 
 the least thought of asking from me the 
 hand of my cousin for her son, after what 
 I have seen at my house, on the road and 
 here, I give her my word of honor that I 
 would order the publication of the banns in 
 less than two weeks.” 
 
 “ And it would not cost you much,” cried 
 the Cur^, laughing. 
 
 “ ril take your word for it. Monsieur 
 r abbe ; as for me, I have only one 
 condition to insist upon : it is, that, in 
 
 order to avoid all new conflict of interest, 
 the future wife and husband be married 
 
 77 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 under the old regime : community of pro- 
 
 perty.” 
 
 “ Bravo ! Merry Christmas ! merry Christ- 
 mas!” ejaculated the delighted company. 
 
 Maurice and Suzanne were so confused 
 that they did not dare to raise their eyes 
 on each other. 
 
 The blind woman stretched her trembling 
 arms towards Suzanne, who threw herself 
 into them with a sob. 
 
 Lisette, Julie, la Louise and the little 
 maid wiped their eyes with their aprons. 
 Maurice bent one knee on the floor, took 
 Suzanne’s hand in his and impressed upon 
 it a long and fervid kiss. 
 
 “Bless them. Monsieur le curd!” prayed 
 the good old mother, also wiping her poor 
 blind eyes. “ Bless them, you, who can see 
 them.” 
 
 And while the old priest extended his 
 long white hands over the two reclining 
 brows, the doctor, who had stealthily and 
 more than once observed the eyes of the 
 invalid, drew near her, and whispered in her 
 
 ear : 
 
 78 
 
A Godsend 
 
 “You shall also see them in a few weeks 
 Madame Flavigny, take my word for it.” 
 
 The little picture was bound to bring 
 luck to everybody. 
 
 And if any one, at that moment, had 
 passed along the road in front of the old 
 school-house at Contrecoeur, he would no 
 doubt have heard, mixed up with joyous 
 laughter, voices young and old, clear and 
 ringing, crying: 
 
 “ No'd ! noel ! . . Merry Christmas ! ” 
 
 “We shall elect him a member of the 
 council,” cried out Philippe Gendreau. 
 
 “We’ll elect him mayor!” exclaimed Mar- 
 cel Benoit, who, for the first time, took upon 
 himself to differ with his friend. 
 
 79 
 
In a Snowstorm: 
 
 HE first time I stood 
 god father was 
 under very extra- 
 ordinary circum- 
 stances indeed, 
 said the Judge. 
 
 It was well in the month of December, 
 
 fully forty years ago, when for some reason 
 
 8o 
 
In a Snow Storm 
 
 or other, an election for the legislature was 
 to take place in the county of Charlevoix, 
 in January following. 
 
 Things happened in those days pretty 
 much as they do now : all the young 
 
 lawyers and other members of the profes- 
 sions who had aspirations for public life, 
 
 were enlisted to assist, with their oratory, 
 one or other of the candidates. 
 
 Living in Quebec at this time, and being 
 one of the phalanx on our side, I was among 
 the first called to the front. You all know 
 what a task it is to carry on an election 
 
 campaign in rural districts during the winter 
 time ; but, as you know, youth recoils from 
 nothing when called upon to rally under the 
 flag. 
 
 I had never visited that part of the 
 
 country, which was said to be very pictur- 
 esque ; and, although the season was anything 
 but favorable for a tourist, I made up my 
 mind to undertake the journey, consoling 
 myself with the thought that whatever the 
 landscape might lose in peaceful beauty at 
 this season of the year, would be more 
 
 8i 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 than compensated for by its wild and 
 impressive character. 
 
 My travelling companion was to be one 
 of my class-mates of the Seminary, a prom- 
 ising young doctor, who, alas ! was lost to 
 science before he could give the world the 
 full measure of his talents. 
 
 We both remembered that another class- 
 mate of ours had just been nominated cure 
 of St. Tite des Capes, and we got it into 
 our heads that it would be a pleasant thing 
 to surprise him by our presence at midnight 
 mass in his new parish, where opportunities 
 for worldly recreation were not frequent 
 enough to afford him many occasions for 
 indulgence. 
 
 A joyful evening en famille, between 
 
 pipe and cork screw, and then an interest- 
 ing midnight ceremony in some rustic 
 chapel, after which a cheerful riveillon 
 
 with wholesome tourtieres and the tradi- 
 tional croquignoles, together with a few 
 glasses of cordial to toast the health of 
 our candidate, this constituted, you must 
 admit, a simple but rather alluring prospect. 
 
 82 
 
In a Snow Storm 
 
 Our plans were quickly arranged ; and 
 we started on our journey with a trust- 
 worthy carter by the name of Pierre 
 
 Vadeboncoeur, who knew the road well, 
 
 and a lively prancing tandem shaking their 
 jingling collars in superb style and gait. 
 
 The sky was grey, but there was no 
 particular indication of bad weather, and 
 
 apparently nothing to prevent us from 
 
 reaching our destination before six o’clock 
 in the evening. 
 
 The box of our sleigh had been divided 
 into two compartments ; in the one we had 
 placed our ammunition for the election, that 
 is to say, the campaign literature to reinforce 
 our oratorical flights ; in the other all that we 
 considered necessary to supplement the cellar 
 and larder of our friend, who lived, of course, 
 the simple abstemious life usual to our country 
 curh, especially in those out-of-the-way re- 
 gions. 
 
 I shall not give a description of the 
 country through which we were obliged to 
 pass; Beauport, Ange-Gardien, Ch^teau-Richer, 
 Ste. Anne de Beaupr^ and St. Joachim are 
 
 83 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 all beautiful parishes ; but from there to St. 
 Tite, it is an interminable ascent across the 
 most broken and desolate country one can 
 possibly imagine ; a dreadful road, plunging 
 at times into dense forest, then winding up 
 to bare summits, reached by rugged roadways 
 creeping through fantastic gorges or sidling 
 along dizzy precipices. 
 
 Such are the Capes. This infernal tract 
 is known as the road of La Miche. And 
 
 the road of La Miche, that is the place 
 above all the others where “ the north wind 
 doth blow,” and where the storms of winter 
 find full scope to unbridle their fury. 
 
 Now the weather, which had been reason- 
 ably fine during the early afternoon, had 
 begun to change for the worse after our 
 passage through the village of Ste. Anne. 
 The snow — thick and dry — drifted from time 
 to time by sudden gusts of wind, began to 
 fill up the road, sadly impeding our pro- 
 gress. Consequently we were somewhat 
 
 late in arriving at St. Joachim, where we 
 halted at the house of an old fellow by 
 the name of Filion, the keeper of a neat 
 
 84 
 
‘‘ fVe were aoniewhaf late in nrriring at St. 
 Joachim ” 
 
 Patfc «4 
 
In a Snow Storm 
 
 country inn, to light our pipes and shake off 
 the chill 
 
 Messieurs” said the innkeeper, “perhaps 
 you will think it is none of my business 
 but if I were in your place I would go no 
 further to-night.” 
 
 “ What do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ I mean that Cape Tourmente does not 
 bear his name for nothing ; see if he has 
 not the appearance of hiding himself for 
 some mischief. Take my word, in half an 
 hour from this, it will take no ordinary 
 horses to cross the Capes.” 
 
 “ Mine are not St. Joachim horses, you 
 know,” said the driver, somewhat piqued. 
 “ I have seen your Capes before ; I know 
 what they are.” 
 
 “ Not so well as I do,” returned the inn- 
 keeper ; “ and I wager you my hquse with 
 
 all that’s in it, that you won’t go through 
 the Capes this evening.” 
 
 “Well, well, we shall see,” replied Pierre, 
 lighting his pipe and tipping us a kind of 
 malicious wink which we understood full 
 well. 
 
 85 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Filion — evidently an honest man — under- 
 stood it also, for turning towards us he 
 remarked ; 
 
 “ If these gentlemen suspect me of giving 
 interested advice, I have nothing left but to 
 wish them good luck ; my duty is done.” 
 
 We felt he was sincere ; but to miss our 
 Christmas Eve, our surprise for our friend 
 the cure, was too much of a disappointment. 
 And then Pierre Vadeboncoeur seemed so sure 
 of his venture. . . . 
 
 In short, we re-entered the cariole, and 
 while we warmly wrapped ourselves in the 
 robes, the driver vigorously lashed his horses, 
 who sprang forward, snorting, through the 
 drifts. 
 
 The innkeeper had spoken truly ; in less 
 than an hour, we were travelling blindly over 
 impracticable roads, in complete darkness, 
 enveloped in a torrent of snow and sleet, of 
 ivhich no one, who has not seen the same, 
 can form an idea. After having mounted 
 perpendicular escarpments, at the summit of 
 which our horses could hardly stand against 
 the wind, we had to descend into yawning 
 
 86 
 
Ill a Snow Storm 
 
 gulfs, bordered by giant firs, where the poor 
 animals almost disappeared in the whirling 
 snow. 
 
 Of course, we could not advance at more 
 than a walk ; and with nothing but instinct 
 to guide them, our beasts, exhausted and 
 blinded by clinging rime, trudged painfully 
 along with hanging heads and heaving flanks. 
 
 “ Suppose we turn back,” said I to the 
 driver. “ It is evident we cannot go much 
 further.” 
 
 “ Turn back ! ” exclaimed the poor man, 
 who seemed bitterly to regret his recent 
 boasting; “it is too late, monsieur; I am 
 as blind as my horses; in turning back, we 
 would risk missing the track, and with the 
 track missed, I would not give five cents for 
 our three skins.” 
 
 The doctor said nothing. 
 
 Our situation was becoming hopeless ; 
 since we could not retrace our steps, it was 
 just as impossible to remain where we were, 
 for the cold was increasing in a terrible 
 manner, and in spite of our thick furs, we 
 were chilled through and through. We had 
 
 87 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 no alternative but to advance — to advance at 
 all hazards. 
 
 I was once in my life in distress at sea, 
 with but little hopes of escape ; but no 
 agony of shipwreck can be compared to that 
 which my companion and myself went 
 through that evening, lost in the dark, 
 solitude and tempest, half paralyzed with the 
 wolfish cold, and depending on two wretched 
 horses, which threatened at every moment to 
 drop under the suffocating whirlwind. 
 
 This last calamity was at hand. Suddenly 
 our shaft horse snorted wildly, and stopped 
 dead, shivering with terror ; the other one 
 had missed his footing on the edge of a 
 declivity, rolling on his flank, and struggling 
 in his agony, half swallowed up in a flurry 
 of moving snow. 
 
 “ That cursed Filion has bewitched us ! ” 
 cried our unhappy driver, throwing himself 
 at the head of the second horse to prevent 
 him from being dragged down by the frantic 
 efforts of his companion ; “ if we have lost 
 
 the road, there is nothing left for us to do* 
 mtssteurs, but say our prayers.” 
 
 88 
 
In a Snow Storm 
 
 While uttering these desponding words, 
 the poor devil had nevertheless succeeded in 
 unharnessing the fallen horse. But what 
 next? Leave the poor animal to perish in 
 the snow? It was first to be seen if the 
 other was able to continue the journey by 
 himself We got out of the sleigh, and 
 rather plunged than walked to give help to 
 the unfortunate driver, who, in spite of all, 
 retained sufficient courage to endeavor to 
 save his horses. 
 
 What a night, mon Dieu! I would not 
 wish my mortal enemy to experience the 
 shadow of the same. 
 
 Suddenly our coachman uttered a loud 
 cry of joy : 
 
 “ A gate ! We are saved.” 
 
 And so it was ; on the other side of the 
 road opposite to the slope on which the 
 horse had sunk, our man had come upon a 
 fence ; and groping for a pole to help him 
 in his work, he had put his hand upon a 
 gate. A gate meant a house, and a house 
 meant safety. 
 
 “Wait a bit!” cried the brave Pierre: 
 
 89 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ in ten minutes there will be some one to 
 help us.” 
 
 And, in fact, to our great relief, he 
 appeared a few moments afterwards with a 
 man bearing a lantern and a rope. And, 
 hurrah ! There was our poor horse on his 
 feet again. 
 
 “ Good-bye now ! ” said the new comer 
 with an extraordinary business-like air ; “ if 
 the good God does not take care of you 
 people this night, I pity you from my heart.” 
 “ What do you mean ? ” cried I ; “do you 
 think we are going further on such a road ? 
 Your house is near by; you would not leave 
 travellers outside a night like this ? ” 
 
 Mes bans messieurs',' said the man with 
 the lantern, “you are going to say it is not 
 very Christian-like, but on my conscience 
 and honor, there is no possibility of sleeping 
 at my house this night.” 
 
 “No possibility? But we are not exact- 
 ing, mon brave; a little corner under your 
 roof, two chairs, a bench, the bare floor — any- 
 thing at all ; but in the name of heaven, 
 don’t leave us lost in the snow, freezing 
 
 90 
 
In a Snow Storm 
 
 alive in the depths of night, on this miser- 
 able road ! ” 
 
 “ Alas ! mes chers messieurs^ it sounds hard 
 indeed, but believe me, it is not my fault ; 
 it is impossible ! ” 
 
 For a moment he took our driver aside, 
 but suddenly he ultered a cry : 
 
 “ A doctor ! There is a doctor here ! ” 
 And rushing back to us he exclaimed : 
 
 “ The doctor ! Where is the doctor ? ” 
 
 “ Here ! ” answered my friend. 
 
 “ Ah ! sir,” said the poor man, almost 
 throwing himself upon the neck of my 
 companion: “you are a doctor? It is the 
 good God who has sent you. This way, 
 this way, quick ! ” 
 
 By the light of the lantern Pierre and I 
 
 followed with the horses. 
 
 “ The stable is at the right,” called out 
 
 the man to us, dragging the doctor after 
 
 him towards the house, the door of which 
 
 he shut in our faces. 
 
 “ I’ve an idea that there is no business 
 
 for us inside there for the moment,” said 
 
 Pierre Vadeboncoeur, somewhat mysteriously ; 
 
 “ but as my fingers are badly frozen, sauf 
 
 91 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 vot' respect, I think you had better let the 
 others manage their own business and help 
 me to unharness the horses.” 
 
 Ma foiP replied I, “one must adapt 
 himself to the times ; to help one another is 
 a law of nature. Come on ! ” 
 
 And while the poor fellow, chilled through^ 
 and moaning with pain, busily chafed his 
 fingers with snow, I drew our cariole under 
 an open shed, and drove our exhausted 
 horses into the stable. Then, after putting 
 a bundle of hay in each of the mangers, I 
 turned my steps towards the house, accom- 
 panied by Pierre, who was still suffering from 
 the numbness of his fingers. He pushed 
 open the door, and I entered, shaking the 
 snow and frost which covered me from head 
 to foot, and removing the icicles which hung 
 on my hair and moustache. 
 
 Hardly had I entered, and in my haste 
 to get near the huge stove which hummed 
 away joyously in the middle of the room, 
 let fall in a corner the heavy furs in which 
 I was wrapped, when my compagnon de voyage 
 appeared with a beaming face, carrying in 
 
 92 
 
In a Snow Storm 
 
 both hands a small bundle, with all the pre- 
 caution and reverence he would have displayed 
 in bearing the Holy Sacrament itself. 
 
 “ Mon ami” said he, bowing, “ I have the 
 honor of presenting to you a newly fledged 
 citizen of the world, to whom I have just 
 given, in the name of the Faculty of Medicine 
 of Laval University, a passport for the stormy 
 journey on the Road of Existence, without 
 counting that of the Capes.” 
 
 “Is it possible — a new-born child?” 
 
 “ Out, monsieur, pour vous servirP said our 
 rescuer, much disturbed but all smiles, “ a 
 little angel of the good God ; our first ! ” 
 
 “ On Christmas Eve, too ! you might take 
 him for the Infant Jesus Himself” 
 
 “ It is indeed true ; our little one is born 
 on Christmas Eve ! ” cried the happy father, 
 turning towards the open bedroom door. 
 
 “You see, then,” said the doctor, “it is him, 
 not me, that God has sent you, my friend.” 
 
 “ Him and you both, sir ! all of you ! you 
 are all messengers of Heaven here,” cried the 
 brave man, drying his eyes with the back of 
 his sleeve. 
 
 93 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 What then ? 
 
 The baby was very weak, and considering 
 the condition of the roads, it was absolutely 
 out of the question to carry the little one to 
 church for at least three days. Therefore, to 
 calm the anxiety of the poor mother, so 
 terribly unnerved by her trial on this night 
 of storm, the doctor advised that a private 
 baptism be proceeded with. 
 
 “You will not refuse to be godfather, will 
 you ? ” said the father, addressing me. 
 
 “ Godfather ? most willingly, my good 
 fellow ; I certainly will be godfather.” 
 
 “ And you will name the boy ? ” 
 
 “Noel, why not? We will call him Noel; 
 it is the very name for a Christmas child.” 
 “Noel, that’s it; it will go perfectly with 
 my family name, which is Toussaint.” 
 
 We arranged matters as fittingly as 
 possible. The doctor officiated, of course ; 
 and I took my role of godfather most 
 seriously, assisted by an agreeable god- 
 mother, the mother of the sick woman. 
 
 I see you smile ; well, perhaps, I looked 
 
 * All Saints’ Day. 
 
 94 
 
In a Snow Storm 
 
 rather grotesque in my new character, but 
 if you had been there, you could not have 
 smiled. When the water of regeneration 
 trickled on the forehead of the little 
 being, so frail, so helpless, whose life, by 
 a most wonderful interposition of Providence, 
 we had probably saved, at Its very entrance 
 into this world, you could not help turning 
 your thoughts back from this humble home 
 to the sacred stable of Bethlehem. And this 
 impression was so real to me, that it seemed 
 as though I actually heard the voices of the 
 shepherds of old, when our comrade Pierre, 
 who had gone back to the stable to finish 
 his duties, set his foot on the threshold of 
 the door, giving forth, amid the booming of 
 the tempest, the first notes of the old carol : 
 
 “ Les anges dans nos canipagnes — ” 
 
 T==F 
 
 
 Xe6 ytcS Ca^-pa.- 
 
 We fell on our knees, and for my part — 
 why should I deny it ? — I felt a big tear 
 
 95 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 running down my cheek, which I did not 
 even attempt to conceal. 
 
 But the ceremony did not end there. 
 Pierre’s journey to the stable had not had 
 the interest of his horses for its only end. 
 His Norman sagacity had smelt out the 
 contents of the hamper he had seen us tuck 
 away beneath the seat of the cariole ; and 
 making the judicious reflection that what 
 was good for the cure could not be bad 
 for his parishioners, he concluded with 
 sound logic that the midnight watch at ' 
 the presbytery of St. Tite having been 
 unavoidably missed, it would be absurd not 
 to utilize the good things elsewhere. 
 
 Upon this, as his frozen fingers had 
 recovered their normal circulation, he had 
 simply brought the hamper to the house, 
 and when we noticed the fact, the table 
 was already prepared for the feast. 
 
 One can imagine the explosion of gayety 
 which followed. 
 
 All Pierre’s couplets and refrains were 
 gone through, accompanied by the clinking 
 of the glasses, and sustained by the majestic 
 
 96 
 
All Pierre's cnuplefs and refrains toere gone 
 through" p 
 

 f S 
 
In a Snow Storm 
 
 voice of the storm, roaring and thundering 
 in the distance. 
 
 I have enjoyed the Christmas fete in 
 France, in England and in this country, at 
 my house and at the houses of others ; well, 
 the remembrance of the finest feast I ever 
 sat down to cannot obliterate the memory 
 of that joyful repast, and the merry toast 
 we drank that night to the health of this 
 humble son of peasants, dozing beside his 
 happy mother under the roof of a miserable 
 cottage, isolated in the mountains and shaken 
 in the raging grasp of a northern hurricane. 
 
 97 
 

 
 - 7f 
 
 a |W;ITTLE PAULINE, little Paul- 
 ine, why, so young and already 
 an unbeliever ! 
 
 /■V^7x^d/ You do not believe any more 
 
 ■ ' ' 
 
 -^1 7 in Santa Claus. . . 
 
 / Neither in the bogie man, of 
 
 course — the one being the com- 
 plement of the other. 
 
 Already indifferent to infantine legends ! 
 What will it be, when you are twenty, when 
 you begin to discover what amount of decep- 
 tion life keeps in store for the hearts fond of 
 fanciful illusions? 
 
 Had she learned the fact through her 
 elder brother, or had the little maid found 
 it out herself at the previous Christmas ? 
 
 Half awake in her little white couch, had 
 
 98 
 
Little Pauline 
 
 she treacherously spied, by the dim reflection 
 of the night lamp, her mamma stealing silently 
 towards the fire-place, where the small shoes 
 awaited the passage of Santa Claus ? 
 
 At all events, little Pauline had lost her 
 childish faith. 
 
 Little Pauline, little Pauline, beware ; once 
 on the path of scepticism, where shall you 
 stop ? 
 
 Farewell to the radiant visions which 
 make you smile in your sleep ! 
 
 Farewell to the beautiful floating angels 
 who lull you in their arms, and refresh 
 your brow with the fanning of their long 
 silken feathers ! 
 
 Farewell to the first illusions ! 
 
 Little Pauline, little Pauline, God spare 
 you the others ! 
 
 Little Pauline was a charming lass of five 
 years, blonde and pretty, with soft and 
 dreaming eyes, very tall for her age, who 
 could read well enough already, sing a song 
 at the piano, and dance a minuet with ex- 
 quisite gracefulness. 
 
 When she balanced herself, her waist 
 
 99 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 elegantly cambered, the point of her foot 
 projected forward, and her skirt open like a 
 fan in the gentle pressure of her delicate 
 fingers, the father had a happy smile, the 
 mother was ravished with admiration, and 
 “Aunt Lucy,” crazy with pride, would seize 
 the child like a prey, enveloping her in a 
 jealous and rapturous caress. 
 
 Who was Aunt Lucy? 
 
 Aunt Lucy, who, 
 by the way, had of an 
 aunt only the name. . . 
 and tenderness, was the 
 widow of a man whom 
 she adored, and who 
 worshipped her, but had 
 left her childless. 
 
 She possessed en- 
 ough to insure her independence ; but, almost 
 without relatives, she had found herself con- 
 demned to comparative loneliness, when a 
 young married couple, hearty friends of the 
 departed one, invited her to spend some time 
 in their comfortable and happy home. 
 
 When she talked of leaving, they would 
 not let her go. 
 
 lOO 
 
Little Pauline 
 
 Her good nature, her delicate disposition 
 of mind, her advice always dictated by the 
 soundest judgment, together with any amount 
 of petty services of all kind, had made her 
 the benevolent genius of the house. 
 
 She had grown indispensable ; she became 
 one of the family. 
 
 In the meantime, little Pauline was born. 
 
 Useless to tell who was the godmother. 
 
 Aunt Lucy eagerly took possession of the 
 baby, which henceforth had two mothers. 
 
 The role of the nurse became a sinecure. 
 
 The true mother herself had one only 
 privilege, that of offering her breast. 
 
 This stranger, who had never known the 
 felicity and ecstasies of maternity began to 
 cherish that child with all the virginal love 
 treasured up in her heart. 
 
 Her worship for the husband, all the 
 affection, all the devotion, all the idolatry she 
 would have had for children of her own if 
 God had given her any, all was conveyed 
 upon that sweet little blonde head, who smiled 
 to her old days with an ineffable expression 
 of gratitude. 
 
 lOI 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 For children, as is the case with certain 
 beings deprived of judgment, if they have not 
 the intuition of life to a degree which permits 
 them to reason about their feelings, have at 
 least the instinct of them, and little Pauline, 
 probably without realizing the immensity of 
 such an affection, gave love for love to the 
 old friend who had eyes only for her. 
 
 Little Pauline grew up, we may say, in 
 the shadow of Aunt Lucy. 
 
 And both, the rosy baby and she who 
 could have been her grandmother, became 
 inseparable. 
 
 At night, the two bedsteads, the large and 
 the small one, were side by side. 
 
 At table, Aunt Lucy gave the beakfull to 
 little Pauline, who turned around from time 
 to time to caress her old friend’s cheek with 
 her small rosy nailed hand, or interrupted her 
 meal to pass her arms around the good lady’s 
 shoulder like a graceful necklace. 
 
 The child followed Aunt Lucy everywhere, 
 sat by her side to lull the big doll, held her 
 hand while passing from one room to the 
 other, entertained her with inexhaustible 
 
 102 
 
Little Pauline 
 
 chattering, or, while the embroidery or the 
 net-work was going on, amused herself by 
 humming fragments of melodies like a night- 
 ingale in a bush. 
 
 If little Pauline ever per- 
 ceived she was alone, “Aunt 
 Lucy ! ” she cried with 
 anxiety. 
 
 There is always some 
 one to tease children ; if 
 any body ventured to say : 
 
 “You know, little Pauline, 
 
 Aunty Lucy is going away! ” 
 little Pauline would raise her 
 eyes with alarm, her face 
 would take an expression 
 of supreme distress, and the 
 sweet smile of her dear little 
 lips would contract into a 
 convulsive expression prelu- 
 sive to a sob. 
 
 One had to hasten with: “No, no, darling! 
 no, darling, it's all for fun I ” or else the poor 
 little one would burst into tears. 
 
 Her brow resumed at once its calmness, 
 
 103 
 
 Pauline. 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 but her little breast still throbbed a while, 
 like that of a wounded bird. 
 
 But Christmas was coming. 
 
 Christmas boxes, New Year’s gifts, presents 
 of all kinds were freely talked of 
 
 Little Pauline’s eyes sparkled, questioning 
 those of Aunt Lucy, whose crow’s foot 
 wrinkled in a mysterious and good smile 
 full of alluring promises and joyful fore- 
 bodings. 
 
 “ If little Pauline behaves like a good 
 girl,” said Aunt Lucy, “ if she says her 
 prayers well and retires early, after having 
 hung up her stockings at the foot of her 
 bed, and left her pretty new shoes in the 
 chimney corner, sure enough, Santa Claus, 
 who is the good Jesus’ messenger, will come 
 down this night and fill them up with candies, 
 dolls and toys.” 
 
 “ With his long white beard ? ” 
 
 “Yes, love.” 
 
 “ With his big pointed hat ? ” 
 
 “Yes, my beauty.” 
 
 “And his nice fur mantle?” 
 
 “Yes, my treasure.” 
 
 104 
 
Little Pauline 
 
 “ And his large basket ? ” 
 
 “Yes, darling, full of beautiful presents for 
 the good babies who go to bed early and say 
 their prayers well.” 
 
 “ Ah ! Ah ! Ah ! . . ” 
 
 And the pearly laugh of little Pauline 
 burst out fresh and ringing, like a gurgling 
 of a silver stream, while, her forehead sur- 
 rounded by a wreath of curl-papers, and 
 her feet entangled in the folds of her 
 white-laced night robe, she knelt before 
 Aunt Lucy with a cunning wink full of 
 provoking incredulity. 
 
 “ And you. Aunty,” said she, “ are you 
 also going to hang your stockings at the 
 foot of your bed, and put your new boots 
 on the hearth-stone ? ” 
 
 “ Nonsense ! ” 
 
 “ Why not ? ” 
 
 “ My stockings and my boots are too big ; 
 Santa Claus will see very well that they are 
 not baby things.” 
 
 “ Put them there anyhow ! ” 
 
 “ What for ? ” 
 
 “ To please little Pauline.” 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Ah ! well, since it pleases little Pauline, 
 Aunt Lucy will obey ; it is written ! 
 
 And here are Aunt Lucy’s stockings hang- 
 ing at the bars of her brass bedstead, and 
 her slippers ranged near the andirons, side 
 by side with the new shoes of little Pauline, 
 who hides her blonde head in her pillows, 
 quivering and laughing like a tickled baby, 
 with the same sly and perfidious expression 
 of face. 
 
 Little Pauline, little Pauline, you conceal 
 some mischief ; what kind of plot are you 
 meditating ? 
 
 There you are, closing your eyes, and 
 pretending to sleep ; what waggish trick are 
 you scherriing, little Pauline? 
 
 Every evening, after prayer and night 
 toilet. Aunt Lucy used to sit down by the 
 cot, hold little Pauline’s hand in her own, 
 and talk the child to sleep by relating to 
 her Cinderella, the Sleeping Beauty, and 
 Aladdin’s Lamp, or some other fairy tales 
 which told of beautiful princesses all spark- 
 ling with jewels, drawn by quadrigas of gold 
 horned gazelles, in mother-of-pearl carriages 
 
 106 
 
Little Pauline 
 
 rolling on wheels glittering with diamonds 
 and rubies. 
 
 Some other time she would sing, endeav- 
 oring to imitate, as much as possible, the 
 accent of Gascony, the facetious song of 
 Nadaud : 
 
 Si la Garonne avait voiilu, 
 
 Lanturhi. . . 
 
 The little one laughed heartily, and more 
 than once fell asleep murmuring : 
 
 La Galonne. . . Lantulu. . . 
 
 But that evening little Pauline asked for 
 neither the daily fairy tale, nor Nadaud’s 
 song. 
 
 It appears she had something else in 
 mind. 
 
 She was thinking, the little rogue ! she 
 was thinking, opening now and then just 
 the corner of an eye, to see if Aunt Lucy 
 was soon, herself, going to sleep. 
 
 She was thinking under her curtains, 
 trembling like a poor anxious turtle-dove, 
 eyes and ears on the look-out, watching — 
 the little spy ! — a kind of vague rummage 
 
 107 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 and smothered noise which came from 
 mamma’s bed-room, next to Aunt Lucy’s. 
 
 At last Aunt Lucy is asleep, as indicates 
 her longer and more accentuated respiration. 
 
 Aunt Lucy sleeps ; and little Pauline, who 
 is aware of it, outlines a cunning smile, and 
 doubtless to be in a better position to hear 
 and see, and resist at the same time the 
 sleepiness which threatens to take possession 
 of her also, she raises her fair head and 
 gracefully leans it .upon her plump little 
 hand, and with her elbow sinking in her 
 pillow, waits in expectancy. 
 
 What is she waiting for? 
 
 Suddenly some footsteps are heard, or 
 rather guessed ; and little Pauline, whose 
 heart beats rapidly, thrusts herself back 
 under her blankets, restless, in the soft 
 and silky feathers, with her eyes well closed 
 up, and her mouth half opened for a smile, 
 just like a child who had been sound asleep 
 for an hour. 
 
 Ah ! little Pauline, little Pauline, what a 
 hypocrite you are. . . ! 
 
 All dressed in white and glad-looking, like 
 
 io8 
 
Little Pauline 
 
 those charming phantoms who sometimes pass 
 through our youthful dreams, the mother has 
 stealthily entered the room ; she throws a long 
 glance to her child, gazes with gratitude at 
 the sweet and kind friend who has made 
 herself the guardian angel of the dear little 
 one, and then wiping a tear of happiness 
 which has glided over her cheek, she stoops 
 one moment before the pretty stockings 
 hanging at the foot of little Pauline’s bed. 
 
 She has left now; gone towards the draw- 
 ing room where stands the chimney through 
 which Santa Claus is to come ; and soon she 
 returns, passing, all white and smiling, in 
 front of the room where little Pauline peeps 
 out, white and smiling also, in the vague 
 and soft glimmer of the night lamp. 
 
 And what then ? 
 
 Ah! little Pauline, you are a terrible rogue; 
 but what a delicious picture you make thus, 
 in that dim light while slipping out of your 
 bed, frightened and shivering, alone with 
 your eyes open in the darkness of this big 
 silent house I 
 
 109 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 What is she doing ? 
 
 No doubt she is going to taste the 
 candies her mamma has dropped into the 
 little stockings. She is too impatient to 
 wait till morning to admire the tO)^s and 
 especially the sparkish doll under which her 
 new shoes must be buried; it is quite natural. 
 
 But no, far from it. 
 
 She hardly looks at the candies. 
 
 They rapidly pass through her hands ; to 
 go where? 
 
 Not far; right into the stockings of Aunt 
 Lucy, who is sound asleep. 
 
 The shares are quickly made. Little 
 Pauline does not take the trouble of 
 counting ; and when Aunt Lucy gets up 
 in the morning, she will have no reason 
 to complain of her lot. 
 
 But this is not all. 
 
 Where are you going now, little Pauline ? 
 Are you not afraid of the black dog, crossing 
 that dark and lonely parlor ? 
 
 Yes, she is ; she trembles, trembles, the 
 poor thing ; but she walks right through all 
 the same, and then hastens back, after having 
 
 no 
 
Little Pauline 
 
 knelt down a moment in front of the big 
 fire-place. 
 
 To-morrow, Aunt Lucy, as well as little 
 Pauline, will find lots of nice presents crammed 
 in her boots. 
 
 And little Pauline, with gleeful heart, 
 returns quietly, quietly to her bed, and 
 falls asleep with her face turned towards 
 her who will weep to-morrow in discovering 
 the touching fraud, the sacred treachery of 
 the little heroine she loves more than life. 
 
 And now, little Pauline, you do not hear 
 the sonorous peals of the church bells chim- 
 ing in the night. 
 
 You do not hear the sacred hymns 
 
 floating in the illuminated sanctuaries, nor 
 the harmonies of the great organs roaring 
 and thundering under the arches of the 
 lofty vaults. 
 
 You do not see, from your downy little 
 bed, the pious crowd kneeling around the 
 manger in which the Infant-Jesus outstretches 
 his little arms towards the pious and kneeling 
 crowd. 
 
 No, but surely the good angels who 
 
 n I 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 looked at you this evening from the alti- 
 tudes where they sang : “ Glory to God in 
 Heaven, and peace on Earth to men of 
 good-will,” have descended towards you, my 
 little Pauline, and now bend their heads 
 over the white couch where you sleep, to 
 kiss your brow, and bless your little great 
 heart. 
 
 IT2 
 
To kiss your hrow and bless your little great 
 heart " 
 
 Page I 
 
THE CHRISTMAS LOG 
 
 RANDMAMMA, tell 
 us a story, please.” 
 
 “A story, a story, 
 grandmamma ! ” 
 
 “ A Christmas story.” 
 
 “ The story of the Man 
 in the Moon. You promised 
 to tell it.” 
 
 And the pretty heads, 
 fair and dark, with opened mouths and 
 sparkling eyes, gathered around the rocking- 
 
 ”3 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 chair of grandmamma, who, her spectacles on 
 her nose, after treating herself to a pinch of 
 Spanish snuff, took her net-work, threw a 
 glance around, which brought a smile on 
 her wrinkled lips, dropped her woollen ball 
 into the apron of the youngest, began to 
 move her knitting-needles rapidly with her 
 long and slender fingers, and then com- 
 menced in a slightly quivering voice : 
 
 “ Once upon a time, my children. . . ” 
 
 At this moment, there was a stir amongst 
 the listeners. Everyone moved in his place ; 
 the tallest gave a little cough ; the most 
 attentive leaned forward with elbows on 
 knees and chin in hands ; then there was 
 a hush, and everyone began to listen with 
 mouth, eyes and ears. 
 
 “Once upon a time, my children,” repeated 
 the old lady as she went on with her knitting, 
 “ there was an old chateau, very old indeed, 
 very gloomy and solitary, standing on the 
 rocky flank of a hill crowned by a forest of 
 large oaks, and named the castle of Kerfoel. 
 
 “ I mean that this was its real name, for 
 it was better known in the country as the 
 Devil’s Tower. 
 
The Christmas Log 
 
 “ In fact it was said that, in old days, the 
 Devil had built a forge and furnace in one of 
 the highest rooms of the turret, where he 
 made gold for the owners of the domain, 
 who, for his services, belonged to him from 
 generation to generation. 
 
 “ There must have been some evil source 
 for the wealth of these wretched miscreants, 
 for, from the top of their towers, one could 
 make out nothing but barren and dry moors 
 planted here and there with big fairy-stones, 
 standing up like men, which are called in 
 Brittany menhirs or Satan’s distaffs. 
 
 “ For I must tell you, my children, that 
 the story I am about to tell took place in 
 France, in the old province called Brittany, 
 where the grandmother of my own grand- 
 mother came from, when our people settled 
 in this land of America. 
 
 “Well, in the days I am speaking of, the 
 lord of Kerfoel, the owner of the Devil’s 
 Tower, was named Robert. He was crippled 
 from birth — bandy-legged and club-footed, and 
 this deformity, which did not prevent his being 
 as strong as a giant, had not lightly con- 
 
 ns 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 tributed to the diabolical reputation he had 
 gained by his ill-tempered, ungoverned and 
 thoroughly bad character. 
 
 “Brought up like a heathen, he had passed 
 his youth hunting wild boars in the woods — 
 even on Sundays and other holy days — 
 harrying the poor peasants, blaspheming the 
 name of God, and indulging in all sorts of 
 wickedness. He was never seen in church ; 
 he never uncovered his head before the 
 Calvaries he passed on his way ; he shame- 
 lessly ate meat on Fridays, and laughed with 
 impudence at funerals. 
 
 “ People pretended they had seen him at 
 night, limping on his twisted leg far away on 
 the moor, in company with the great big 
 stones I told you of, which followed him 
 like dogs in the moonlight, without anybody 
 being able to tell where he was going. In 
 short, the Count Robert de Kerfoel was a 
 wretched sinner, fearing neither God nor 
 Satan, sneering at holy things, and although 
 quite young yet, had by this impious and 
 sacrilegious conduct caused his mother’s death 
 from a broken heart. As to his father, whose 
 
The Christmas Log 
 
 life had hardly been better than his son’s, he 
 had died — without confession — in a corner of 
 the forest, where his body had been found 
 half-devoured by wolves. 
 
 “It was a sad end, indeed, but the son 
 was to finish still more miserably, as you 
 shall see.” 
 
 No interruption was to be heard in the 
 little group ; on the contrary not even a 
 finger moved ; every word, every syllable was 
 snapped up, and the attention of the small 
 audience increased as the good old lady went 
 on with her narrative : 
 
 “You have seen the man in the moon, 
 have you not, my children ? ” 
 
 “Yes, grandmamma.” 
 
 “ A lame man.” 
 
 “ Who is going down hill.” 
 
 “With a bundle of straw on his shoulders.” 
 “No, a faggot.” 
 
 “A log, children, a burning log. One can 
 see him clearly at night, when the stars glitter 
 in the sky and when the full moon rolls her 
 silvery disk between us and the blue depths 
 of the firmament ; especially on the holy 
 
 117 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Christmas night, when Santa Claus goes 
 from house to house with his presents for 
 the good little children ; when the church 
 windows mingle their rosy glare with the 
 pale lights which fall from Heaven on the 
 snow-covered hills ; you have seen him, have 
 you not ? ” 
 
 “Yes, yes, grandmamma.” 
 
 “ With the log on his shoulder.” 
 
 “ Yes, and with his crooked leg.” 
 
 “ Well, listen, now.” 
 
 And the little circle pressed once more 
 around the rocking chair, while grandmamma 
 continued : 
 
 “In Brittany — the valiant land of Brittany 
 — in that good old fatherland of our fore- 
 fathers, Christmas was not celebrated as it is 
 here, where we simply attend midnight mass, 
 and drink a glass of liquor, nibbling a branch 
 of croquignole sprinkled with powdered sugar. 
 There, it was the peasants’ day, the feast of 
 the poor, and the country festival above all 
 others. 
 
 “The folk gathered in the chateaux and 
 large farm houses ; and there young and old 
 
 ii8 
 
The Christmas Log 
 
 waited for midnight mass with all manner of 
 rejoicing. 
 
 “ First, they had what was called the 
 ‘ Christmas log,’ a huge fragment cut from 
 the trunk of a tree, prepared and well dried 
 beforehand, which was burnt in the great 
 chimney place, after having been baptized 
 by dropping over it a brimmer of wine from 
 the last vintage ; after which they sang the 
 old carols, and feasted with cider and nieulles. 
 
 “ Nieulles, you know, were crusty little 
 cakes baked for Christmas only. No Christ- 
 mas was complete without them. 
 
 “So they used to crunch nieulles; crunch 
 nieulles, you understand. Evidently the origin 
 of our croquignoles. 
 
 “ And they danced. Ah ! well, our fore- 
 fathers had not fine pianos as we have 
 to-day. The violin itself was still unknown 
 in the villages of Brittany. No waltzes, nor 
 quadrilles, nor even cotillions. Boys and girls 
 danced the bourree and the carole to the sound 
 of the biniou, an instrument something like the 
 bagpipes you have seen with the Scotch regi- 
 ments. 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ No floors brilliantly waxed, either, my 
 children ; nor Oriental carpets, nor elegant 
 shining pumps. But people did not enjoy it 
 the less for that, I fancy ; at all events, it 
 was not the harmonious clic-clac of the beech- 
 tree shoes on the resounding flagstones that 
 could spoil the music. 
 
 “ As you can easily imagine, my pets, the 
 Holy Christmas was not celebrated in this 
 fashion at the Devil’s tower. 
 
 “ The people at the chateau on that night 
 did but as we do here ; they simply went to 
 church to adore the divine Infant in his 
 manger, and returned silently to gather 
 around the hearth, where the old game- 
 keeper Le Gofiflc, like your grandmammas 
 to-day, used to relate some old story, or 
 sing some old carol, but in a very low voice, 
 of course, for fear of being overheard by the 
 master. 
 
 “ And it was thus, over and over from one 
 season to another, the years following in sad- 
 ness and fear, without a moment of gayety, 
 without a glimmer of joyousness. 
 
 “ One morning it happened that Count 
 
 120 
 
The Christmas Log 
 
 Robert sent for his steward, Yvon Kerouak, 
 and had a long talk with him. Then he 
 ordered his best steed to be saddled, and 
 with a heavy travelling bag well buckled 
 on the croup, he started away without saying 
 a word to a living soul. 
 
 “Where did he go? Nobody ever knew. 
 
 “ Months followed weeks, and years 
 months, without bringing the slightest news 
 of him. After a long while he was supposed 
 to be dead, and everyone made the sign of 
 the cross on his breast with his thumb on 
 hearing the name of the Count de Kerfoel, 
 who must have been the victim of some 
 dreadful punishment, and who surely would 
 never be seen again in this life, and, if it 
 pleased God, in the other either. 
 
 “Twenty years had gone by. The steward, 
 the housekeeper, and other servants had grown 
 grey; the old watchman Le Goffic counted over 
 eighty years ; and everyone having become 
 convinced that the absentee would never 
 return, a more peaceful life had introduced 
 itself by degrees, if not under the lofty 
 ceilings of the state rooms, at least under 
 
 I2I 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 the smoked rafters of the common hall, 
 where the peasants and shepherds of the 
 neighborhood occasionally gathered on public 
 festivals or days of rest, to enjoy themselves. 
 
 “ In short, thanks to the disappearance of 
 Count Robert, the inhabitants of the old 
 chMeau had begun to lead a more quiet 
 and happy life ; and merry times became as 
 frequent at the Devil’s Tower as anywhere 
 else. 
 
 “ Especially on Christmas Eve was there 
 joyful merry making and abundant feasting 
 under the battlements of the old Tower, 
 which might not have failed, in time, to 
 acquire a Christian reputation, if the tragical 
 event I am going to relate had not added 
 its fantastic page to the old legend. 
 
 “ One year the inhabitants of the chMeau 
 had made up their minds to celebrate Christ- 
 mas Eve with exceptional splendor. A huge 
 billet cut out of one of the giant oaks of 
 the park had been prepared for the ceremony; 
 and, as early as eight o’clock in the evening, 
 all the neighbors, the biniou-player heading, 
 crowded into the large hall of the chateau. 
 
 122 
 
The Christmas Log 
 
 illuminated by rosin torches and the lively 
 blaze which already caressed the Christmas 
 log proudly installed right in the centre of 
 the hearth. 
 
 “ The foaming cider was passed around, 
 stimulating joyous repartees and provoking 
 explosions of laughter among the feasters ; 
 and each one swallowed his bumper to the 
 ringing of the rustic goblets, while, and 
 through all, droned the long and snuffling 
 notes of the biniou. 
 
 “ Suddenly : 
 
 “‘Noel! Noel I . . ’ cried all the voices in 
 one enthusiastic acclamation which made the 
 old Gothic windows with their colored and 
 leaded panes tinkle. The Christmas log had 
 just taken fire, crackling and spreading all 
 about showers of brilliant sparks. 
 
 “‘The baptism! the baptism!’ cried every- 
 one. 
 
 “‘Uncle Le Goffic ! to you the honors of 
 the ceremony ! ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Come, baptize the Christmas log, uncle 
 Le Goffic!’ 
 
 “‘Uncle Le Goffic! uncle Le Goffic!’ 
 
 123 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ And all fell on their knees, while the 
 old game-keeper, with bare head, advanced 
 towards the large fire-place, whose light 
 shone like a glory around his long white 
 hair, outlining as on a golden background, the 
 majestic and imposing figure of the old man. 
 
 “ ‘ In the name of the Father, and of the 
 Son, and of the Holy Ghost !' said he in a 
 low and solemn tone, while his knotty and 
 trembling hand dropped a ruby-like string of 
 wine on the heavy fragment of oak bitten 
 by the winding blaze. 
 
 “ The bystanders had not time to answer 
 amen, before a wild gust of wind swept aside 
 the flames of the hearth, and in the opened 
 door stood the evil and deformed figure of 
 Count Robert de Kerfoel. 
 
 “ Everyone stood up, dumb and horrified. 
 After a moment of deadly silence, the new- 
 comer threw a ferocious glance about, and 
 with a drawn sword, advanced through the 
 terrified peasants towards the chimney. 
 
 “ ' Par la mort Dieu ! ’ cried he with a 
 haughty and thundering voice, ‘since when 
 has my dwelling become the scene of such 
 
 124 
 
Christening the Christmas Ijig 
 
 Fatfc U4 
 
The Christmas Log 
 
 ridiculous mummeries ? . . Joel,’ added he, 
 as he turned towards his old groom and 
 pointed to the blazing fire, ‘ throw away this 
 emblem of a cursed superstition ! ’ 
 
 “ An exclamation of terror followed ; 
 
 “‘The Christmas log?’ 
 
 “‘Yes, the Christmas log, out of this with 
 it! Do you hear me, Joel? 
 
 ‘“My Lord Count,’ replied Joel, kneeling 
 down in fear, ‘ the Christmas log is sacred : 
 I’d rather die than touch it.’ 
 
 “ The count Robert was crazy with rage. 
 
 “ ‘ By all the devils ! ’ yelled he, addressing 
 the steward, whom he had just detected in 
 the crowd, ‘who commands here, Yvon Ker- 
 ouak ? 
 
 “ ‘ My Lord Count,’ replied the steward, 
 
 ‘ the Christmas log is hallowed ; to touch it 
 would be a crime I ’ 
 
 “ ‘ It would be a crime ! ’ repeated all like 
 an echo. 
 
 “At this the exasperation of the miscreant 
 knew no bounds. 
 
 “‘Stupid idiots!’ cried he. 
 
 “And then, laying hold of two jugs of 
 
 125 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 cider, he emptied them over the burning 
 log, and pulled the same with his own 
 hands out of the fire-place, and lifted it 
 to his shoulder without regard to the fire- 
 brands which singed his hair and shrivelled 
 his skin. 
 
 “ ‘ My Lord Count,’ besought the old 
 game-keeper, shivering from head to foot, 
 ‘ the Christmas log has been baptized, 
 beware of God’s hand, my Lord Count ! ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Sacrilege ! ’ exclaimed several voices, 
 as limping in a dreadful fashion, his back 
 bent under the weight of the smoking 
 billet, the Count stepped across the thres- 
 hold, and, with horrible blasphemies, dis- 
 appeared in the outside darkness. 
 
 ‘“Let us kneel down!’ cried old Le Goffic. 
 
 “ But it was too late ; a terrible cry of 
 distress, which had in it nothing human, 
 sounded in the night, raising up the hair 
 of all the witnesses of the terrible scene. 
 
 “ And never again was the Count Robert 
 de Kerfoel, the last Lord of the Devil’s 
 Tower, seen amongst the living. 
 
 “Ever since that night, my children, one 
 
 126 
 
The Christmas Log 
 
 can see on the shining disk of the moon, in 
 clear weather, a man with a twisted knee, 
 stooping under a strange burden in which 
 those who see clearly enough can make out 
 a half-burnt log still flaming here and there. 
 
 “The unfortunate Count Robert is con- 
 demned to carry the burden on his shoulder 
 until the day of the last judgment.” 
 
 “ And it is he we see in the moon, grand- 
 mamma ? ” 
 
 “They say so, my children.” 
 
 “With the Christmas log?” 
 
 “Yes, my children.” 
 
 “With his crooked leg?” 
 
 “ And his club-foot ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Is that story true ? ” asked one of the 
 urchins, who had listened most attentively 
 and with the most widely opened eyes. 
 
 “ Pshaw ! ” said the tallest of the girls ; “ a 
 fairy tale.” 
 
 “ Well, of course, my children,” said the 
 grandmother, smilingly, “ you asked me for 
 a Christmas story. I have related you what 
 was related to me when I was a child ; you 
 
 127 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 may do the same 
 are old ; let your 
 wish.” 
 
 in your turn when you 
 listeners believe if they 
 
 128 
 
fjjr i '' 
 
 EANNETTE, a chubby 
 little maid, roly-poly and 
 plump, with inviting dim- 
 ples and wary black eyes, 
 had, at first — oh! 
 immediately ! almost 
 from birth — shown an 
 instinctive antipathy for her 
 father. 
 
 When he leaned over her cradle with a 
 kiss on his lips, she would outline a grimace 
 of dislike at him, and if he opened his arms 
 
 129 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 for an embrace, she would turn to her mother, 
 with outstretched hands, as if to implore help. 
 
 A painful circumstance, which changed 
 the face of things, came to console him. 
 
 Jeannette fell ill. 
 
 During several days, a devouring fever 
 hollowed her cheeks, dulled her eyes, and, so 
 to speak, gnawed her thin and shivering little 
 limbs. 
 
 The father did his best to encourage his 
 wife in despair. When the poor mother 
 took a little rest, he in his turn sat at the 
 bed-side of the little one, and bending over 
 her with tear-dimmed eyes, heavy-hearted and 
 dejected, he almost imprecated his powerless- 
 ness to relieve the dear child for whose health 
 he would so willingly have given his own, a 
 thousand times. 
 
 One morning Jeannette opened her eyes 
 at the very moment when a heavy tear 
 splashed on her poor, pale, helpless little hand. 
 
 She had the strength to turn her head 
 toward her father ; and then, these two beings 
 so different in age and in nature, exchanged 
 one of those looks that are never forgotten, 
 
 130 
 
Jeannette 
 
 and by which is sometimes effected that trans- 
 fusion of souls, that only those who are made 
 to love passionately can understand. 
 
 The father had conquered the heart of his 
 child ; the child had guessed and sounded 
 that of her father. 
 
 Convalescence is rapid with the little 
 ones. The dear invalid took a new lease on 
 life ; her cheeks bloomed anew, her large, 
 velvety eyes recovered their pristine brightness, 
 her pretty dimples appeared once more as the 
 lurking-place of sweet kisses, her lips, long 
 mute and livid, found again their smile, their 
 color and their silvery notes. 
 
 The house became once more as ringing 
 as a spring day, and as cheerful as a sunbeam. 
 
 A revolution had taken place in Jeannette’s 
 character ; she adored her father. 
 
 She was never happier than, when sitting 
 on his knees, she pulled his beard, tickled his 
 neck, or teased him with a thousand coaxing 
 caresses, while she prattled as uninterruptedly 
 as a finch on a marauding expedition. 
 
 On his side, never was the father more 
 beaming with joy than when he rocked the 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 arch little lass in his arms, relating to her 
 the adventures of Hop-o’-my-Thumb, or singing 
 to her some ballad of the times of yore. 
 
 Do not ask me if they were happy. 
 
 But all this is digression. 
 
 Jeannette had grown ; she was now turned 
 four years, and the affection she had vowed 
 to her father had not diminished. 
 
 On the contrary, the little one had become 
 his inseparable companion ; and, as long as 
 he was at home, she deafened, or rather 
 charmed him by her chatter, told him a 
 myriad adorable nothings, and asked him 
 a thousand questions which the good papa 
 answered with imperturbable complacency. 
 
 At the coming of Christmas, a holiday so 
 impatiently awaited by the little folks, the 
 conversation between the parents and babies 
 runs, naturally enough, on the presents to 
 which this time of the year almost always 
 gives rise in well-to-do families. 
 
 This was Jeannette’s great preoccupation. 
 The day before Christmas Eve, as the family 
 dinner was drawing to a close, all at once 
 she became pensive, and after a moment’s 
 
 132 
 
Jeannette 
 
 reflection, during which the graceful curve of 
 her eye-brows had become somewhat marred 
 in the struggle of a confused thought, she said 
 brusquely : 
 
 “ Tell me, papa, is it the Infant-Jesus or 
 Santa Claus who comes down in the chimney 
 to put presents in the shoes of the little 
 children who have been good ? ” 
 
 “ Why do you ask me that ? ” 
 
 “ Well, there are some people who say 
 that it is Santa Claus, and others who say 
 it is the Infant-Jesus.” 
 
 “ They both come, my love ; each one in 
 turn, each one his year.” 
 
 “ And this year it is the turn of .... ? 
 
 “ Of the Infant-Jesus.” 
 
 And as the child clapped her hands with 
 a joyous exclamation, the father added : 
 
 “You are glad?” 
 
 “ Oh ! yes.” 
 
 “You love the Infant-Jesus better than 
 Santa Claus ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed.” 
 
 “ But why ? ” 
 
 “ Because ....!” 
 
 133 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 And Jeannette put her finger in her mouth 
 with a deliciously provoking expression of face. 
 
 “ Tell me why,” insisted the father ; “ Santa 
 Claus brought you handsome toys last year.” 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ With a beautiful big doll.” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Then why don’t you love him ? ” 
 
 “ Because ... he is not good to everybody.” 
 “ He is not good to everybody ? ” 
 
 No ; he does not love the little children 
 who are poor ; he does not give them any- 
 thing.” 
 
 “ Are you sure that Santa Claus gives 
 nothing to the poor children ? ” 
 
 “ I am ; Rosina told me so.” 
 
 “Who is Rosina?” 
 
 “ The washerwoman’s little girl. I asked 
 her if she was going to put her shoes in the 
 chimney to-morrow night. She said she 
 had put them last year, but that she had 
 found nothing in them, although she had been 
 ever so good. Her mother says that Santa 
 Claus only goes to rich people. But since it 
 is the Infant- Jesus who comes this year, I 
 
 134 
 
Jeannette 
 
 will tell Rosina to try again. Little Jesus 
 must love poor people as much as the others, 
 since he was poor himself.” 
 
 “ But are you sure that he will go ? ” 
 Jeannette remained a few moments non- 
 plussed ; but after a moment’s reflection : 
 
 “ Yes,” she said. “ He will go. I shall pray 
 him hard, hard, and surely he won’t refuse 
 me. 
 
 An hour after ; softly enveloped in her fresh 
 white night dress, her chin propped upon her 
 primly folded hands, and her knees sunk in the 
 long silky hairs of a llama skin rug, Jeannette 
 prayed like a little angel that she was ; then 
 while the mother gave her the good night 
 kiss, and tucked in warmly the covering of 
 the little bed, the name of Rosina passed 
 like a sigh on the lips of the sleeping child. 
 
 When the morning sun stained with pink 
 the window of the room where she slept, 
 Jeannette rose absorbed in thought. Her 
 father’s last words “ Are you sure that he will 
 go ? ” returned to her memory, and the child 
 began not to be so sure of the efficacy of 
 her prayer. 
 
 135 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ After all, perhaps he will not go,” she 
 said to herself. And this supposition saddened 
 her almost to tears. 
 
 “ What is the matter with you this morning, 
 my Jeannette,” said the father; “you are not 
 so gay as usual. Don’t you know that to- 
 night is Christmas Eve, and that, since you 
 have been very good, to-morrow morning your 
 little shoes, and even your little stockings 
 perhaps, will be crammed with pretty things ? ” 
 Jeannette smiled, but remained pensive. 
 
 “ Papa,” she said as though she had 
 suddenly come to a decision, “ if I knew how 
 to write .... but I can only sign my name.” 
 “What would you do if you could write?” 
 “ I would write a letter.” 
 
 “To whom?” 
 
 “To little Jesus.” 
 
 “ Well, my love, tell me what you want to 
 tell the Infant-Jesus ; I will write to him, and 
 you will sign.” 
 
 “ Truly ? ” 
 
 “At once, if you want.” 
 
 “ And it will be the same thing ? ” 
 
 “ Exactly the same.” 
 
 136 
 
Dictated ma'd for imrd by hh ajmlt pet ” 
 
 Pagrc 136 
 
 a 
 
Jeannette 
 
 “ Oh ! dear good papa ! ” 
 
 And the little one threw herself into 
 the arms of the “dear good papa,” who, a 
 few minutes after, was sitting at his desk 
 writing the following letter dictated word for 
 word by his spoilt pet : 
 
 Dear Little Jesus, 
 
 “ To-morrow is your feast of Christmas, and as I 
 have been very g-ood, I put my shoes on the hearth- 
 stone, just like the other children. But give me only 
 your picture, and take the presents to Rosina who 
 is very good also, but whose mother is a poor widow. 
 You know her house, don’t you ? It's on Sanguinet 
 street. There is a big tree right in front — ” 
 
 Here Jeannette jumped. 
 
 A big tear, similar to the one that had 
 wakened her one day by falling on her sick 
 little hand, had just wet the paper, where the 
 father’s nervous fingers had some difficulty in 
 following the lines. 
 
 “ Why do you cry ? ” she asked, passing 
 a pudgy little arm around his neck and 
 looking tenderly into his eyes. 
 
 Too much moved to answer, the good 
 father took his child in his arms, pressed her 
 
 137 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 closely to his heart, enveloping her in a 
 lasting passionate embrace ; and for a long, 
 long time, he jealously contemplated his 
 treasure through the tears of happiness and 
 love that filled his eyes. 
 
 When the little one had scribbled her name 
 at the foot of her touching letter to the Infant- 
 Jesus, her father stood up and walked up and 
 down for a few minutes to recover himself 
 Then, with his back turned, he stood for some 
 time before the window of his study, his gaze 
 lost in the brilliant azure of the December 
 sky ; and when entering the room, the mother 
 — tenderly loved also — heard him murmur in 
 a half-sob ; 
 
 “ Provided God does not take her away 
 from us ” 
 
 At night the naive missive, carefully 
 directed, lay in the little shoe slid behind 
 the fire dogs ; and, after having said her 
 prayers as the night before, Jeannette softly 
 fell asleep amid her white laces, to dream of 
 Child Jesus, of the good Angels and of 
 Paradise. 
 
 Not far from there, in a humble and lowly 
 
 •38 
 
J eannette 
 
 home, at the first glimmer of dawn, a poor 
 little girl — who sometimes accompanied her 
 mother when the latter brought newly- 
 washed clothes to the house of Jean- 
 nette’s parents — the little Rosina so warmly 
 recommended in the letter to the Infant- 
 Jesus, had a great surprise and a great 
 joy. 
 
 Beaming with happiness, she carried to 
 her mother’s bedside a pink-cheeked, yellow- 
 haired doll in elaborate costume. 
 
 Her old shoes had disappeared, yielding 
 the place in the corner of the chimney to 
 warm and elegant boots in both of which 
 shone a gold coin. 
 
 Of course it is unnecessary to add that 
 on the special recommendation of her mother, 
 the child’s first visit was to Jeannette. 
 
 “ Me,” said the latter, “ I have not a doll, 
 nor new shoes, nor gold pieces, but I have 
 more than all that. The little Jesus gave me 
 his picture. Here it is.” 
 
 And she ran to get a pretty chromo-litho- 
 graph, very brilliantly festooned with gold 
 arabesques, showing the divine Infant in his 
 
 139 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 manger. On the back of the picture was 
 inscribed in a superb round hand : 
 
 To Jeannette, from the Little Jesus. 
 
 “ It. comes from Him?" 
 
 “Yes, I found it in my shoe.” 
 
 “ Oh ! how beautiful He is ! ” cried Rosina 
 enthusiastically. 
 
 “Is He not charming?” approved Jean- 
 nette. 
 
 “ And how well He writes ! ” 
 
 “ Yes, He writes j'ust like Marius.” 
 
 By the way, Marius was a valet, whose 
 graphical talent was generally put into 
 requisition when there was some careful 
 writing to be done. 
 
 No, Jeannette had no other presents for 
 Christmas that year, but she lost no time 
 by waiting, for papa and mamma took their 
 revenge royally on the New Year. 
 
 Jeannette is now nineteen. 
 
 She is a tall, handsome brunette, who has 
 made her d^but at the last St. Catherine 
 ball, and who cherishes her father as much 
 
 140 
 
 as ever. 
 
Jeannette 
 
 Recently she happened to unlock an 
 elegant casket in the presence of one of 
 her friends, 
 
 “ Here ” she said, “ this is a picture I 
 have kept since I was a four years old 
 little bit of a thing.” 
 
 “ Really ? Oh ! the pretty Christ Child.” 
 
 “ Is it not nice ? ” 
 
 “ Why don’t you put this little jewel 
 among your other knick-knacks ? ” 
 
 “ Ah ! well, do you see,” answered the 
 young girl hesitatingly, “ I don’t know why, 
 but every time that papa looks at it, it 
 never fails to bring a tear to his eyes,” 
 
_n 
 
 traveller of to-day 
 mSMa who crosses the St. 
 
 Lawrence between 
 Quebec and Levis, 
 during the winter 
 season, comfortably 
 seated between decks in the powerful 
 screw steamers which occupy only a 
 few minutes in passing from shore to 
 shore, forcing their way through the 
 drifting floes, untroubled by mist or 
 wind driven snow, can have but a 
 
 142 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 faint idea of what this crossing, in old days, 
 really meant. 
 
 The trip was made in heavy canoes, or 
 dug-outs, formed of two large trunks solidly 
 joined by a wide and flat keel of polished 
 oak, turned up at both ends, so that the 
 craft could be used as a sledge when needed. 
 
 The captain sat astern, on a small platform 
 where he commanded the manoeuvring, steering 
 with a special paddle ; while, at the bow, 
 sometimes standing right on the pince — 
 the slender projection of the prow — another 
 fearless fellow explored the passes and 
 watched the false openings. 
 
 In the front of the pilot, a certain space 
 was reserved for the passengers lying on the 
 flat bottom, wrapped up and covered with 
 buffalo robes, perfectly protected from the 
 cold, but with hardly the power of moving. 
 
 The rest of the canoe was crossed with 
 thin planks, equally spaced, which not only 
 strengthened the craft, but also served as 
 seats for the men, who paddled in time, 
 encouraging themselves with voice and 
 gesture. 
 
 ^43 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 It was a hard calling ; and, as the 
 Canadian winters of those times were much 
 more severe than those of ours, it was some- 
 times a dangerous one. 
 
 Every launching of the canoe — that is, 
 every start from the shore — gave a thrill to 
 the sturdiest. Down from the top of the 
 batture — (the icy rampart built along the 
 beach by the rising and falling of the tide, 
 and the constant grinding and breaking of 
 the drifting floes) — down from the top of 
 the batture into the dark and swirling waters, 
 the crew hurriedly jumping on board in a 
 desperate entanglement of hands, legs and 
 arms, it was a matter of a few seconds only, 
 but every heart stood still until the flying 
 start was accomplished. 
 
 And, Nage, camarades ! ... . Haut les 
 coeurs ! ... . Les bans pet its coeurs ! 
 
 Enormous lumps of greenish ice block the 
 way : quick ! go for them ! There we are ! 
 Down with the paddle, shoulder the rope, and, 
 forward again on the frozen surface of the 
 river ! 
 
 Further on, great masses are crammed and 
 
 144 
 
It toa.s a h.ard calling” 
 
 Pafc 144 
 
• A 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 heaped up one upon the other. The passage 
 seems impracticable. ... No matter, hoist up 
 the canoe, and forward once more over the 
 obstacle ! 
 
 A crevice opens before us ; it is an abyss 
 perhaps. . . . Never mind, drive on at all 
 hazards ! Wet snow freezes and sticks to the 
 sides of the canoe, impeding our advance : not 
 a moment to lose : roll in ! roll in, boys ! . . . 
 And off we are again! 
 
 Now it is different ; everything gives way 
 all around. It is no longer water ; it is no 
 longer ice. Paddling is impossible ; no point 
 of support to heave upon ; prisoners in the 
 melting snow and the dissolving ice 1 ... . 
 Courage, boys I . . . . Away, away, altogether ! 
 forward, anyhow I . . . . 
 
 And the struggle might go on for hours, 
 sometimes even for the whole day. 
 
 Oh I yes, it was a hard calling indeed. 
 Victor Hugo has depicted the “Toilers of the 
 Sea.” He should have seen the canoe-men of 
 Levis at work ! 
 
 145 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 II 
 
 Some thirty years ago, I happened to be 
 in company with a newly-married couple from 
 Florida, who had been original enough to un- 
 dertake a wedding journey through Lower 
 Canada in mid-winter. 
 
 These travellers, from a country fragrant 
 with magnolia blossom, and oranges ripening 
 in January, found a deep interest in the 
 peculiarities of our winter weather ; and as a 
 proof that their wanderings had been planned 
 with the intelligence and sagacity of two 
 lovers in search of the picturesque, it will be 
 sufficient to say that their itinerary included 
 a visit to Quebec and its vicinity, the mid- 
 night mass in the old historic cathedral, a 
 slide on the frozen cone of Montmorency, 
 and a moonlight crossing of the St. Lawrence 
 amid the floating ice. 
 
 They had reached Levis in the morning 
 of the day before Christmas, and to insure 
 the moonlight crossing, had spent the day 
 at the Victoria Hotel, where, as an old 
 acquaintance of the husband, I had hastened 
 to join them. 146 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 In the evening, we made ourselves ready, 
 and started for the quarters where the canoe- 
 men generally stood waiting for passengers. 
 
 “It is fine moonlight, that’s true,” said one 
 of them, a fellow by the name of Nazaire 
 Jodoin, “but the cold is bitter and the floes 
 run fast, I tell you ! If you don’t wish to 
 risk a night on the banks of Beaumont, I 
 would advise you not to face the ice before 
 a couple of hours. No canoe will make 
 Pointe-a-Puyseaux with such a current. Old 
 Baron himself would not dare to try it.” 
 
 “ Where is old Baron ? ” 
 
 “At Uncle Vien’s, smoking his pipe. But 
 he won’t take you across before eleven or 
 half past, take my word for it! You can 
 walk in and warm yourselves until the ebb 
 is over, and by low tide, I’ll land you safe 
 and sound in the Cul-de-sac, just as quick 
 as you can desire.” 
 
 “ Well, then,” said I to my friends, “ wait 
 for me, I will consult with old Baron ; he is 
 the oracle in such matters.” 
 
 “We will go with you,” said the young 
 lady. 
 
 147 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ But, madam, remember I am not going 
 into a drawing-room.” 
 
 “What do I care? We are not looking 
 for luxuries in our crossing of the St. Law- 
 rence this freezing night.” 
 
 “ But those people smoke like volcanoes ; 
 you will be suffocated.” 
 
 “ It cannot be worse than our negroes' 
 cabins, I presume.” 
 
 “ Oh ! certainly not.” 
 
 “ I am used to that, let us go ! I travel 
 not only to see the country, but also its 
 inhabitants.” 
 
 “ All right, then ; the fact is, you will see 
 only honest people, somewhat rustic in their 
 manner, but all kind, good-hearted fellows.” 
 
 I knew the house of old Vien; we entered 
 without knocking, to find ourselves in a large 
 hall surrounded by wooden benches running 
 close to the walls. On these benches, with 
 crossed legs, or elbows on their knees, a 
 score of canoe-men smoked their brown 
 pipes, exchanging from time to time a few 
 words with indifference or good - natured 
 interest. 
 
 148 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 Others, more recently arrived from out- 
 side, with frozen boots and soaking beards, 
 dried their leather mittens, striking the floor 
 with their feet, around the huge cast-iron 
 stove which roared away in the centre of 
 the room. 
 
 These men, in more or less shabby attire, 
 wore, for the most part, a grey or red flannel 
 shirt under a round jacket made of baracan, 
 corduroy or etoffe du pays tightly fastened 
 around the waist by a belt of gaudy colored 
 wool. A fur cap pulled down to their eyes ; 
 their trousers half buried in long-legged moc- 
 casins were held up on the hip by a well- 
 buckled strap, — suspenders being inconvenient 
 for the handling of the paddle. 
 
 There they were, young and old, black- 
 bearded or grey-haired, hardly distinct in 
 the confused lights falling from the tallow 
 candles held on the wall by tin brackets, 
 and which were themselves hardly distin- 
 guishable through the smoke of the pipes 
 and the vapor produced by drying clothes. 
 
 T wo passengers, seated in a corner, 
 awaited, like ourselves, the favorable moment 
 to start. 1 40 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 III 
 
 On our entrance all conversation ceased, 
 and each one uncovered himself, for polite- 
 ness is traditional with the French Canadian, 
 humble as may be his position in life. 
 
 “ Eutrez, mam' ze He I entrez, ces messieurs ! ” 
 said the master of the house, advancing ; 
 
 “come and seat yourselves. You wish to 
 
 cross, no doubt ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, M. Vien,” said 
 I, “and at once if pos- 
 sible. What do you think 
 of it, M. Baron ? ” 
 
 “ It is always possible 
 to tempt Providence,” sen- 
 tentiously answered a tall 
 old man, white-headed 
 and honest-looking, who 
 was smoking his short 
 pipe apart from the others, seated on the only 
 
 chair there was in the room, “ it is always 
 possible to tempt Providence, but it does not 
 bring good luck.” 
 
 “You believe there is a risk?” 
 
 Old Baron. 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 “ There is at least the risk of passing the 
 night on the ice ; and with a creature (lady), 
 it is not a pleasant thing.” 
 
 “ You can depend on old Baron,” intervened 
 our host, “ he seldom gives bad advice.” 
 
 “ That’s true,” said one of the smoking 
 crowd ; “ if poor Sanschagrin had listened to 
 him, last year, he would probably be still in 
 the world.” 
 
 “ Well,” said one of the canoe men who 
 had not spoken yet — a man with a gloomy 
 air and a long black beard — “ he had seen 
 Peter’s head, you understand ; and when a 
 fellow has seen Peter’s head . . . . ” 
 
 “ He is bound to perish within a year,” 
 added one of his comrades. 
 
 “ Gracious me ! if I had the misfortune to 
 see such a thing,” said another voice, “ I 
 wouldn’t board a canoe for a thousand ! ” 
 “I wouldn’t touch a paddle for a fortune!” 
 added another fellow. 
 
 “ Nor I, surely I ” exclaimed several 
 listeners. 
 
 “ A legend ? ” whispered my friend’s wife, 
 to whom the good old man had courteously 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 offered the only chair in the hall, “ a legend ? 
 It is a godsend ; pray, have them tell us the 
 story.” 
 
 “ What do you mean by Peter’s head ? ” 
 said I to the man who had first alluded to 
 the matter. 
 
 “ Friend Baron can tell you about that 
 better than I,” said the man of gloomy 
 appearance, “the thing happened in his days.” 
 
 “ Sure enough ! ” said old Vien ; “ Baron 
 knew Peter Soulard well, and so did I. A 
 young man of good character, but not lucky. 
 
 “ If he was not lucky,” said old Baron, 
 “ he was not very prudent either, the poor 
 devil ! Take my word, mes gars, it is very 
 well to be brave and valiant, but one must 
 not tempt Providence. One never repents of 
 having been too cautious, while he often 
 regrets not having been cautious enough. I 
 don’t like to boast, but I have paddled across 
 the St. Lawrence in winter, spring, and 
 autumn, in all kinds of weather, almost every 
 day of my life, and I never met with the 
 slightest accident. Why ? Because I never 
 played the braggart, and always hated 
 
 152 
 
<< 4 ^ Uncle Viens ” 
 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 bravado. I was not scared by trifles, certainly 
 not ; but I was never ashamed to withdraw 
 before a real danger. One can risk his own 
 life if he wishes, when not stopped by the 
 fear of God, but the lives of others are not 
 to be played with. Unfortunately poor Peter 
 Soulard was more courageous than prudent. 
 He preferred facing any danger than to be 
 suspected of cowardice.” 
 
 And old Baron, yielding to enthusiastic 
 recollections, told us the story of Peter 
 Soulard. 
 
 IV 
 
 The story takes us back to January, 1844. 
 
 The winter was exceptionally severe. Al- 
 most uninterrupted easterly winds had blown 
 over the region of Quebec, blizzard upon 
 blizzard, in rolling avalanches of hail and 
 blinding snow, which made the crossing of 
 the river most difficult and sometimes 
 impossible. 
 
 The tide drifted, from morning till night, 
 and from night till morning, mountains of 
 ice which broke furiously on the angles of 
 
 153 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 the wharves with tremendous crash. It was 
 only at intervals that the eye could reach 
 from one shore to the other, through the 
 heavy fogs tormented by the squalls. 
 
 The life was hard for the poor canoe-men. 
 When they left their homes in the morning, 
 they were not always sure to be back at 
 night. 
 
 One day, however, the sun had risen on 
 a clear and calm atmosphere. The cold was 
 sharp, but dry. One could hear the ice-floes 
 creaking in the distance, and the snow, hard- 
 ened by the frost, cracked under the feet ; 
 but the sky shone, limpid and transparent 
 like blue rock crystal. 
 
 The floes had gathered so abundantly 
 during the night, that they had frozen into 
 a solid mass, closing the outlet of the Quebec 
 basin at the place where the river suddenly 
 narrows, between Point Levis and the south- 
 west end of the Island of Orleans. To use 
 the technical expression : “ the ice bridge 
 
 was frozen at the key." 
 
 Now, when the ice bridge freezes at the 
 key, the rest of the floes which come from 
 
 154 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 above are still driven up and down by the 
 current, so that the rising tide thrusts them 
 several miles backwards, until the ebb drives 
 them down against the formidable barrier. 
 This is called the “ Chariot.” 
 
 When the chariot is up above, the river 
 between Quebec and Levis is clear, and the 
 crossing is just as free as in summer time ; 
 but beware when the gigantic mass, filling 
 the space from shore to shore, runs down 
 to hurl itself against the rampart that bars 
 its way to the Gulf! The impact is terrible. 
 Woe to those who are caught in the jaws 
 of the blind monster I 
 
 As already stated, the weather was 
 exceptionally fine, but the river was no 
 less threatening. Peter Soulard, who com- 
 manded a canoe of his own, had crossed 
 from Levis to Quebec early in the morning ; 
 and after having loaded his homeward cargo, 
 was preparing for his return to the south 
 shore. 
 
 Unfortunately, one of his passengers had 
 caused him to lose much precious time, and 
 the chariot, driven down by the ebbing tide, 
 
 155 
 
Christmas in French .Canada 
 
 was already doubling the Foulon’s wharves, 
 when Peter Soulard, his paddle in his hand, 
 cried out with all the might of his lungs : 
 
 “All aboard ! all aboard ! Embarque ! 
 einbarque ! ” 
 
 “ It is late, Peter ! ” remarked some one. 
 
 “ Don’t bother me, please ; I know what 
 I am about.” 
 
 “ Your canoe is too heavily loaded,” 
 observed another ; “ you will have the 
 
 chariot on you before you can reach 
 Point Levis.” 
 
 “ Mind your own business ! ” was the 
 only reply. “ Do you take me for a green- 
 horn ? ” 
 
 “ Peter,” called old Baron himself, who 
 happened to be near by, “ no tom-foolery 
 my friend ; there is nothing to be gained 
 by tempting Providence.” 
 
 “You are a set of old women,” cried out 
 Peter Soulard, launching his canoe from the 
 top of the batture of the Champlain Market. 
 
 It was a heavy plunge in a resounding 
 gush of foam ; the paddles strenuously dipped 
 into the waves ; and the canoe, manned by 
 
 T56 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 sixteen passengers and crew, shot away, 
 under the blue sky, leaving a long silvery 
 track in the dark waters behind, while the 
 cheery shout of Peter Soulard rang out 
 bravely : 
 
 “ Paddle on, my hearties ! Nageons, nos 
 gens ! ” 
 
 The tide ran with extreme violence ; in 
 a few moments, they were out of sight in 
 the direction of the West India pier. 
 
 Twenty minutes later, the roaring chariot 
 was opposite Quebec, and the idlers, who 
 watched the torrent dashing along, saw old 
 Baron stealthily crossing himself, with his 
 eyes turned offward. 
 
 That evening, when the early night of 
 January spread its darkness over the hills 
 of Levis, two men were seen walking along 
 the ice-covered beach, sobbing and shaken by 
 convulsive shiverings. It was Peter Soulard, 
 who had escaped from death as by a miracle, 
 with one of his comrades. The other fourteen 
 had perished — drowned in the tumultuous 
 waters, or ruthlessly crushed beneath the 
 onward rush of the savage mass. 
 
 157 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Strange to say, the terrible lesson, 
 frightful as it was, was of no avail to 
 the reckless man. Two years later, his 
 habitual imprudence brought to a fatal end 
 two more unfortunates who ventured to 
 embark with him, in spite of the reputation 
 of fatalism naturally attached to his person- 
 But this time it was the end of him 
 also, and a most tragical one, too. 
 
 While clinging to the flank of his canoe, 
 which had capsized in mid-stream, a rapidly 
 running floe of ice, thin and sharp as a steel 
 blade, struck him a fair blow in the neck, 
 and cut his head clear from his shoulders, 
 in full sight of his horrified companions, as 
 swiftly as would have done the fatal knife 
 of the guillotine itself. 
 
 The head of the unfortunate man bounded 
 offward, and slid by starts, leaving behind a 
 dreadful trace of blood upon the ice. 
 
 In that dangerous part of the Quebec 
 basin, known as “ entre les deux eglises'' 
 between the two churches of St. Joseph 
 and Beauport, especially in foggy or snow- 
 drifting weather, the horrible head sometimes 
 
 158 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 appears to the terrified crew led astray in 
 those perilous waters. 
 
 Suddenly, they see, emerging from the 
 milky darkness, a huge slab of floating ice 
 on which rolls and bounds a black and 
 shapeless object hardly distinguishable in the 
 shifting light. 
 
 It is Peter Soulard’s head. 
 
 Then, about ! about ! without losing a 
 second ! Woe to those who have seen the 
 spectre : they must die within the year, and 
 generally by a sudden and tragical death. 
 
 It was said poor Octave Sanschagrin had 
 once been in such a crew. 
 
 V 
 
 Old Baron was at this point in his story, 
 when a loud voice resounded outside : 
 
 “ All aboard ! all aboard ! ” 
 
 Instantly all the canoe-men were on their 
 feet. 
 
 “It’s low tide; water still; come on!” 
 
 “ How many passengers ? ” 
 
 “ Five.” 
 
 159 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ One canoe and eight good paddlers will 
 be enough.” 
 
 “ Hurry up, it’s your turn, Nazaire.” 
 
 “And it’s lucky for you,” said I, “for you 
 are going to take across a newly married 
 couple.” 
 
 “ You don’t say ! ” 
 
 “ Yes, and who see the St. Lawrence for 
 the first time.” 
 
 “ Is that so ? ” 
 
 “Yes, it will bring you luck.” 
 
 “ Ah ! well, then, if such be the case, 
 listen to me : I have a brand new craft 
 which I intended to hansel on New Years 
 day ; why not hansel her to-night ? ” 
 
 “ That’s an idea ! ” said old Baron ; “ is she 
 ready ? ” 
 
 “ She has only to be taken out of the shed 
 and launched.” 
 
 “ Get her out, then.” 
 
 “ You order so ? ” 
 
 “ Of course ! We shall christen her like 
 a three-master.” 
 
 “ Will the little lady consent to be god- 
 mother ? ” 
 
 i6o 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 “ 1 should think so ! ” I exclaimed, “ and 
 her husband will be godfather. As to me, 
 if you will allow, I shall furnish the liquid. 
 Is that right ? ” 
 
 “That’s right!” 
 
 “Hurrah I” 
 
 “ Well then, forward, hearties I . . . . 
 Ho I .... ” 
 
 We started, and soon the elegant new 
 craft, dressed up with flags, and with a joyous 
 crew — some at the rope and others at the 
 gunwale — slid along the sloping path which 
 led to the river. A few moments were 
 sufficient to reach the beach. 
 
 Old Baron accompanied us. 
 
 “Uncle Edouard,” said Nazaire Jodoin, 
 addressing him ; “ you shall come with us, 
 won’t you ? You shall command ; it will be 
 another good omen for my canoe.” 
 
 Old Baron never hesitated when called 
 upon to perform a task of any kind. 
 
 “As you wish, boys!” said he, “but since 
 we are going to baptize a new Christian, have 
 you thought of choosing a name for her ? ” 
 
 “ In fact, we must choose a name.” 
 
 i6i 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “Well,” said somebody, “it is Christmas 
 Eve — Noel in French — why shouldn’t we call 
 her Noel} ” 
 
 “No, no!” intervened the owner; “I have 
 lost a law suit with Noel Beaudoin of St- 
 Henri: I won’t name my canoe Noel\” 
 
 “ In that case we might call her the 
 Infant-Jesusl' proposed one of the crew. 
 
 “ Tanfan Rheaume, you’d better hold your 
 tongue. We are not at church here. Would 
 you only promise never to swear on board 
 this canoe, if it was called the Infant- Jesus!” 
 “ Well ... now ... ” 
 
 “ Of course not, you wouldn’t. We are 
 too great sinners, do you hear me ? all of us, 
 to give such names to our canoes.” 
 
 “If we called her Santa Claus ...” said 
 a voice. 
 
 “Yes! to have her rush with her load 
 into Mother Begin’s garret, like Michel 
 Couture’s canoe which bore that name? You 
 remember when she broke her rope running 
 down the Fraser hill ? ” 
 
 “ Into a garret, you said ? ” 
 
 “Yes, Madame, at night, on her way down 
 
 162 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 from St. Joseph, by land. The road turns 
 there, and as the roof end of the house is 
 on the same level as the hill, the canoe, 
 which was laden with an ox, broke loose, and 
 instead of following the curve, rushed madly 
 into the house, right through the walls, knock- 
 ing over everything on her passage, stoves, 
 partition frames and bedstead with their con- 
 tents. You can imagine. . . . Michel Couture 
 had to pay one hundred dollars for that.” 
 
 “ And she was called Santa Claus ? ” 
 
 “ The canoe ? Yes, Madame.” 
 
 “Was it also on Christmas Eve?” asked 
 the lady with a smile. 
 
 “ Oh ! no ! ” was the laughing answer ; 
 “ that would have been too much,” 
 
 “ Listen to me ; I fancy my proposal will 
 be agreed upon,” said I, advancing towards 
 the group. “ Let us give our canoe the name 
 of her godmother, by Jove ! What is your 
 Christian name, Madam ?” 
 
 “ Mary, sir.” 
 
 “ Bravo, that’s it. Merry Christmas ! ” cried 
 out old Baron, unknowingly hazarding an 
 English pun for the first time in his life. 
 
 163 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ Merry Christmas ! hurrah ! . . , ” 
 
 At this moment, the first call to midnight 
 mass rang in the distance, and at the majestic 
 sound of the bells of Notre-Dame in full peal, 
 the traditional libation glided over the prow 
 of the swift canoe, while twenty joyful voices 
 cried : “ Merry Christmas ! ” to the echoes of 
 the lofty hills which face the rock of old 
 Quebec. 
 
 A few minutes later, my companions and 
 I were warmly nestled down amid the heavy 
 furs heaped at the bottom of the canoe. The 
 light craft, with her prow turned towards the 
 river, advanced slowly at first, head overhang- 
 ing in the space, balanced there for one 
 moment, and then, carried away by the 
 weight of the paddlers jumping aboard, she 
 shot forward like an arrow, dived into the 
 waves, rebounded like a ball, and under the 
 effort of eight good paddles skilfully handled, 
 swept off in the whirling foam. 
 
 “ Merry Christmas ! ” cried the paddlers. 
 
 “ Merry Christmas ! ” repeated old Baron, 
 who sat astern, bent on his long paddle 
 wriggling in the eddy like the tail of a Triton. 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 “ Let us have a song ! ” cried somebody. 
 “No, boys, no songs to-night!” said old 
 Baron, “but a Christmas hymn if you like.” 
 And with a true and sonorous voice which 
 old age had not yet affected, the old veteran 
 of the St. I.awrence canoe-men, intoned over 
 our heads the old carol whose cheerful rhythm 
 keeps time so well with the movement of the 
 paddles, and which sums up the whole 
 Christian Legend : 
 
 II est nd, le divin Enfant : 
 
 Jouez, hautbois ! rdsonnez, musettes ! 
 
 II est nd, le divin Enfant : 
 
 Chantons tons son avhnement ! 
 
 
 5 
 
 
 SL ie. di - wit- tn. - • 
 
 ~N — 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 — ^ I ; I » I- 
 
 I 
 
 ±: 
 
 I ^ t ' I ^ t ^ 
 
 it. di. - viyL. Sm. — '■ 
 
 . ' 1 II r . # — T-. r 
 
 1 • 
 
 ;i J * \ r \ • r \ ^ > >- i 
 
 ^ 1 . k 
 
 
 Cfian-i^^ IStid. - 9nMA~ f 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 To which the manly voices of the crew 
 answered in unison : 
 
 II est n^, le divin Enfant! 
 
 I shall never forget that wonderful voyage. 
 
 We sped on, rapidly, under the sparkling 
 blue sky, flooded by the white rays of the 
 moon, which spread afar its silvery glitter 
 over the undulation of the waves. One 
 could fancy that each star, as a magic 
 spark, lighted thousands of flaming cressets 
 here and there among the masses of the 
 resting floes. 
 
 No, I shall never forget that delightful 
 voyage. 
 
 Suddenly our way was barred by a vast 
 piece of ice, flat-surfaced like a marble floor 
 In two seconds, our canoe was hauled on it ; 
 and we halted to contemplate the scene. It 
 was fairy-like. 
 
 The steep shores of the St. Lawrence 
 unrolled right and left their snowy tapering 
 heights, which the roofs, the trees, the cam- 
 paniles and the church steeples seemed to 
 
The Phantom Head 
 
 perforate with dim or luminous points, like 
 a fringe of silver embroidery. 
 
 Around us, on the breast of the gigantic 
 river, as far as the eye could reach, white 
 surfaces appeared in a soft diffused light, 
 broken here and there by furrows, rents, 
 crevices, pools, lakes of deep water, all 
 spangled with reflections intensifying its 
 
 inky darkness. 
 
 And all this in an atmosphere of biting 
 cold, but the strange calmness of which 
 penetrated the soul with an extraordinary 
 impression of serenity. 
 
 For some time the church bells of 
 Quebec had been mingling their clangor 
 with the resounding peals from the other 
 shore. Unconsciously overwhelmed by the 
 grandeur of the spectacle, we instinctively 
 pressed against each other, listening to the 
 solemn voices of the sacred bronzes ex- 
 changing from height to height their call to 
 prayer, through that wondrous night — sublime 
 anniversary of the great event. 
 
 “ Ave Maria ! ” cried out old Baron, 
 taking off his heavy fur cap. 
 
 167 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 And all the sturdy canoe-men uncovered 
 their heads, while their tawny faces glowed 
 under the starry splendors of the night. 
 
 Impossible to picture the majesty of the 
 scene ! 
 
 “Nothing could be more beautiful!” ex- 
 claimed, with one voice, my two friends 
 from Florida. 
 
 “ And thank God, we have not seen the 
 Phantom Head,” uttered Nazaire Jodoin, 
 setting his foot on the batture of Quebec. 
 
 Several years later, passing along the foot 
 of the cliff which overhangs the cove where, 
 like a bee-hive, hums the great ship-yard, I 
 noticed the remains of an old canoe, on the 
 shattered bow of which a tattered piece of 
 tin bore the four letters “ TMAS,” half 
 washed out by time and weather. 
 
 Was it the skeleton of the old Merry 
 Christmas ? 
 
J FEW years ago, some peculiar 
 circumstances had led to Nicolet 
 — a pleasant little town situated 
 on the banks of the Nicolet river — a family of 
 five persons, neither rich nor poor, of neither 
 humble nor brilliant condition, but in whose 
 home the angel of happiness had always had 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 his corner at the hearth and his place at the 
 table. 
 
 At the time of my story, the youngest of 
 the three children — a delicate fair-haired little 
 maid, with dark eyes — was just four years 
 old ; but her pretty face and her winning 
 ways had already made her friends with the 
 whole neighborhood. 
 
 Most of the time she spoke of herself in 
 the third person, and this peculiarity con- 
 tributed to make her name of Louise — which 
 she pronounced Ouise — familiar to every one, 
 from old Boivert’s ferry to the Bishop’s 
 Palace. 
 
 When she leaned over the railing of 
 the balcony, or when, light as a lark, she 
 wandered in the alleys of the garden, her 
 provoking little head emerging here and 
 there among the rose bushes and honey- 
 suckles, the old priests who passed by on their 
 way to the Bishop’s, the students who turned 
 the corner of the college avenue, the gentle- 
 men and the ladies who followed the sidewalk 
 of the main street, never failed to say : 
 
 “ Bonjou r, L ou ise ! ’ ’ 
 
 170 
 
Ouise 
 
 To which a fresh and laughing baby voice 
 invariably answered : 
 
 “ Bonzour ! ” 
 
 The carters and the lumbermen who 
 returned from the sawmills after their day’s 
 work, smiled to her with a pleasant word : 
 
 “ Bonsoir, mamzelle Louise ! ” 
 
 And the little one answered in her clear 
 ringing voice, like a bird’s call : 
 
 “ Bonsoir, monsieur ! ” 
 
 Often she stopped the coachmen with a 
 sign of her dimpled finger, and when they 
 came nearer to ask what she wanted : 
 
 “ A drive ! ” she whispered, with a whole 
 regiment of lurking smiles nestled at the 
 corners of her eyes and mouth. 
 
 Sometimes they would object : 
 
 “ I am in a hurry, Mamzelle Louise.” 
 But then, she would put the index of her 
 right hand on the index of her left, and with 
 an accent of irresistible coaxing : 
 
 “ A lit. . , lit. . . little one ! ” she would 
 pray, varying her gentle intonations in the 
 most exquisite manner. 
 
 That was all ; the coachman would stop. 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 look at her a moment, and then yielding to 
 a fit of surly kindness, would grumble : 
 
 “What a child! Impossible to refuse her 
 anything.” 
 
 And seizing the little one in his two 
 sturdy hands, he would place her on the 
 seat of his vehicle, jump to her side, give 
 a crack of his whip, and start at random, 
 while the child shook her fair curls in the 
 wind, and her peals of laughter rang in the 
 ears of the passers-by, who looked at her 
 with a smile. 
 
 In short, Louise was a favorite. 
 
 Did she love anyone in return ? 
 
 Did she love anyone ? Why, she loved 
 everybody. Oh, yes ! But, after her father, 
 mother, brother and sister, the one she loved 
 the best was her dog. 
 
 For Mademoiselle Louise had a dog, a 
 fine French griffon^ very queer in his heavy 
 fleece, which completely covered his eyes, a 
 good doggy who had been named Corbeau, 
 on account of his being a jet black. And, 
 on his part, the dog had taken a fancy to 
 the child, and never left her the breadth of 
 
 172 
 
Ouise 
 
 his sole, if this expression be permitted when 
 talking of dogs. 
 
 If one thing more than another had the 
 power to throw Louise into fits of mirth, it 
 was that old popular ballad, which her father 
 used to sing to her, and which began thus : 
 
 II Itait un petit homme 
 Qui s' appelait Guilleri, 
 
 Carabi ! 
 
 II s' en fut a la chasse, 
 
 A la chasse aux perdrix, 
 
 Titi, carabi 1 Toto, carabo ! 
 
 “ Toto Corbeau ! ” exclaimed the little one. 
 
 And her ringing laughter sparkled like a 
 piece of fireworks. 
 
 The first time she was taken to confession, 
 her father said to her ; 
 
 “You will pray for me, won’t you, Louise.” 
 
 “ Oh ! yes, papa ! ” she answered. 
 
 And when, on her return, she was asked 
 if she had remembered her promise : 
 
 “Yes, papa,” she said, “Ouise told two 
 big sins for you ; there ! ” 
 
 As the winter feasts drew near, the papa 
 had gone to Montreal for a short trip. He 
 
 173 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 returned home on the very day before Christ- 
 mas, with a small, but rather heavy trunk 
 he could not open, having, to the great 
 disappointment of the little ones, unfortu- 
 nately lost the key on his way. 
 
 Of the contents of the mysterious trunk, 
 he had not the slightest recollection. 
 
 At all events, it could not be Christmas 
 presents, as, for one reason or another, he 
 had found all the stores of Montreal closed. 
 And, what was even more annoying, he had 
 been short of money. 
 
 Under such conditions, how could he have 
 purchased anything at all ? It was very dis- 
 appointing indeed ; but everyone knows that 
 on Christmas Eve Santa Claus makes his 
 round with his basket full of presents for 
 good children. 
 
 “Well, now, my honeys,” said the father, 
 “put your shoes in the fire-place, hang up 
 your stockings at the foot of your beds, say 
 your prayers, and — quick, under the blankets ! 
 To-morrow morning we shall see what the 
 little ones’ friend will have brought to you. 
 If you sleep well, you may be sure that he 
 won’t forget you.” 
 
Ouise 
 
 The boy — full credit must be given to him 
 for that — had a kind of smile which denoted 
 a certain air of incredulity ; the eldest sister 
 remained somewhat pensive ; but Louise 
 began to dance, clapping her hands, utter- 
 ing bursts of laughter and loud ringing 
 cries of joy. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped, and had a moment 
 of serious thought. Then, lifting up her in- 
 quisitive eyes, she said to her father : 
 
 “ Will Santa Claus also bring something 
 to the little Jesus in the church?” 
 
 “ No, my child.” 
 
 “ Why not ? ’ ’ 
 
 “ Because the little Jesus needs nothing ; 
 all things belong to him.” 
 
 “ Yes, papa, he needs something ; he is 
 poor ; Ouise saw him to-day. He has no 
 clothes ; he must feel cold, cold. The poor 
 baby will cry.” 
 
 And the little one, almost moved to tears 
 put her finger to her trembling lips, her 
 breast quivering like that of a bird seized 
 by a feather of its wing. 
 
 But childish emotions pass quickly ; the 
 
 175 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 good-night parting and the preparation for 
 rest made a happy diversion. 
 
 Three good sounding kisses to papa, three 
 tender hugs to mamma, and ten minutes later, 
 three pairs of fine new shoes lay on the 
 stones of the hearth, and three gentle heads, 
 fair and dark, sank into three white pillows, 
 in the shadow of the curtains caressed by 
 the trembling glimmers of the night lamp. 
 
 As one may guess, the key of the 
 trunk was easily found. And presents of all 
 kinds soon crammed the shoes in the fire- 
 place ; a big doll gorgeously dressed was 
 laid across those of Louise ; the little stock- 
 ings hanging at the foot of the beds were 
 filled up with candies and pretty gifts by 
 the discreet hand of the mamma ; and when, 
 before retiring, the papa threw a loving 
 glance through the half-opened door behind 
 which rested his treasures, he fancied he 
 could see a swarm of those winged spirits 
 called dreams fluttering around the brow of 
 his darling pet, murmuring to her ears some 
 of the divine secrets which, that night especi- 
 ally, the angels of Heaven exchange between 
 
 176 
 
Ouise 
 
 themselves in the enchantments of their eter- 
 nal felicity. 
 
 And while the servants passed the thresh- 
 old on tip-toe to attend the midnight mass, 
 the father and mother, kept at home by 
 paternal duty, went to sleep, lulled by the 
 solemn chimes of the bells chanting their 
 aerial hymns through the night. 
 
 At the first gleaming of the day, both 
 were wakened up by joyful exclamations. 
 
 An uproar of trumpets, of drums and 
 fiddles, broken by silvery voices, came up 
 from the lower storey. 
 
 In tw'o minutes the house was on foot, 
 gathered in one group. 
 
 “ But where is the other one ? ” asked the 
 father, kissing the two eldest children. “ Is 
 not Louise up yet?” 
 
 “ She is,” said the mother ; “ her bed is 
 empty.” 
 
 “ Where is she, then ? ” 
 
 “ Don’t know,” answered the little ones. 
 
 “ Louise ! ” 
 
 “ Louise ! ” 
 
 Rather puzzled, all hands began a search. 
 
 177 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ Where is the dog ? ” asked the father 
 anxiously. 
 
 “ Corbeau ! ” 
 
 “ Corbeau ! ” 
 
 “ Corbeau ! ” 
 
 No answer, not even a growl. 
 
 The poor father gave a cry of alarm : 
 
 “ The dog is not here ! the child is gone ! 
 Good Heavens, where is she ? ” 
 
 And almost crazy, he rushed out bare- 
 headed, without even noticing that the door 
 bolt was drawn. 
 
 A thin coat of snow had fallen during 
 the night ; footprints were visible crossing 
 the front garden and leading towards the 
 cathedral. One could easily detect the tracks 
 of two little feet together with that kind of 
 rosette, in the shape of a five-leafed clover, 
 which the foot of a dog imprints. 
 
 This somewhat reassured the anxious 
 father, who continued his run in the direction 
 indicated by the traces. 
 
 He had not gone a hundred paces when 
 he stood face to face with the Bishop, an old 
 college companion, who came to him holding 
 
 178 
 
<‘ / bring yon back a little saint ” 
 
 PaKP 178 
 
Guise 
 
 by the right hand the little maid, whose left 
 disappeared among the long and shaggy hairs 
 of the griffon. 
 
 “ I bring back to you a little saint,” said 
 the Bishop. 
 
 And handing to his friend a small parcel 
 he held under his arm : 
 
 “ With a restitution,” added he, smiling. 
 
 The father was soon acquainted with what 
 had happened. 
 
 It was dark yet, and the lamps, lighted 
 since five o’clock at the Bishop’s Palace, had 
 not yet yielded before the morning dawn 
 when the door bell was heard. 
 
 It was old Therese, the gardener, who 
 answered the call. 
 
 A type worth picturing, this same The- 
 rese. 
 
 Imagine an old crone, who worked hard, 
 grumbling from morning till night, smoked 
 like a locomotive, and who, satisfied or dis- 
 satisfied, had only one energetic expression 
 to show forth her joy or discontent : “ Cr^ 
 
 million ! ” 
 
 If you gave her a few cents, some tobacco, 
 
 179 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 some old clothes, or even a glass of wine, 
 she never failed to say : 
 
 “ Thank you, ere million ! that’s exactly 
 what’s good for me.” 
 
 If the little brats of the neighbourhood 
 entered her garden, walked on her flower- 
 beds or plundered her rose-bushes : 
 
 “ Cre million ! ” she said : “ hold on a bit, 
 you scoundrels ; I’ll hang you by the ears on 
 the handle of the door.” 
 
 The children, who knew the value of her 
 threats, were not frightened more than was 
 necessary — and had given her the surname of 
 Million, to which she seemed to have no 
 objection. 
 
 It was she who went to the door. 
 
 “ Bonzour, Miyon ! ” said a little voice from 
 out the dark. 
 
 Therese drew near : it was Louise with 
 her dog and a little parcel she held with 
 outstretched arms as something precious and 
 sacred. 
 
 “'Why, is it you, puceron?” cried the old 
 maid ; “ what are you about at such an 
 hour ? ” 
 
 i8o 
 
Ouise 
 
 “ Want to see Monsieur Monseigneury 
 “ Monseigneur ! Monseigneur ! Cre million ! 
 he has something better to do than listen to 
 your nonsense, Monseigneur. Come in and 
 warm yourself. Did you ever see the like ? ’’ 
 “ What is it ? ” asked a low paternal voice, 
 well known to the little girl. 
 
 And the good Bishop appeared in the 
 opening of the ante-chamber. 
 
 “What is it?” 
 
 “ It’s me.” 
 
 “ Who you ? ” 
 
 “ Ouise ! ” 
 
 “ Louise ! upon my word ! so it is. Who 
 is with you ? ” 
 
 “ Corbeau.” 
 
 “ Does your father know ? ” 
 
 “ Is asleep.” 
 
 “ And what are you here for ? ” 
 
 “Ouise brings a dress for the little Jesus.” 
 “You bring a dress for the little Jesus?” 
 “ Yes ; Ouise saw him yesterday ; has no 
 dress. Feels cold, cold.” 
 
 “ But where did you get that dress ? ” 
 
 And the child told, in her baby language 
 
 i8i 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 with hesitation and stammering efforts at the 
 long words, how she had put her shoes in the 
 fire-place before going to bed ; how Santa 
 Claus had come during the night and brought 
 her a big doll with a nice new dress ; how 
 she had then thought of the Infant-Jesus all 
 alone in his manger in the big cold church ; 
 and, at last, how she had taken off the doll’s 
 dress to bring it to the poor little Jesus. 
 
 The Bishop listened with emotion. 
 
 “ But now your doll is going to be cold 
 too,” said he. 
 
 “Oh! no, she’s wrapped up in Guise’s shawl.” 
 
 “Well, then, come away 1 ” said the good 
 prelate, stealthily passing the end of his finger 
 in the corner of his eye, “ I shall take you 
 back to your papa ; you will dress up your 
 doll again ; and, as to the little Jesus, don’t 
 be anxious about him, I shall have his manger 
 warmed so that he will be quite comfortable.” 
 
 “ Surely ? ” 
 
 “Surely! You will see to it, won’t you, 
 Th^rese ? ” 
 
 Therese was wiping her eyes with the 
 corner of her apron. 
 
 182 
 
Ouise 
 
 “ Cre million ! my lord,” she said, “ I’m 
 ready to heat him until he melts.” 
 
 “ All right, then ; and now, Louise, here 
 is a nice picture for you ; it is the picture of 
 the little Jesus himself” 
 
 “ Thank you, Monsieur Monseigneur.” 
 
 “ You like it ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! yes ; have you got another one ? ” 
 
 “ You want two ? what for ? ” 
 
 “ Ouise wants one for her Indian.” 
 
 “ What Indian ? ” 
 
 “ Good Indian brought Ouise to mamma, 
 when Ouise lit — lit — little.” 
 
 The Bishop and old Therese had a good 
 laugh, and the Indian was made happy too.* 
 
 It is a received tradition with our little ones that they are 
 brought to their parents by a “good Indian,” which theory is at 
 least as effective as that of the Cabbage Leat. 
 
P HE narrator was a well- 
 known Montrealer. 
 
 phonse, if you permit me : the most amiable 
 of comrades, the most loyal of friends, but at 
 the same time the greatest fatalist in Creation. 
 
 So complete a fatalist that, one day, in the 
 open street, he almost fell into my arms, 
 exclaiming joyfully : 
 
 “ My dear fellow, congratulate me : I have 
 just lost a five dollar bill.” 
 
 And before I had time to remark that I 
 failed to see in this any serious subject of 
 
 184 
 
The Horseshoe 
 
 felicitation, he was executing a mazurka step 
 on the sidewalk to the great amazement of 
 the passers-by. 
 
 That morning he had accidentally broken 
 a small looking glass, and he expected all 
 kinds of dreadful casualities in the course of 
 the day. The loss of the five dollars had 
 averted the threatening fatality ; hence the 
 exuberance of his joy. 
 
 A black cat, in particular, had the effect 
 of exasperating him to madness. He would 
 have walked miles to avoid the sight of one. 
 
 It was the first winter I had ever passed 
 in a southern climate ; and knowing nothing 
 in the shape of December temperature but 
 the snow storms of Quebec and the freezing 
 north winds of Chicago, I lived in ecstacy, 
 literally intoxicated with sunshine and per- 
 fumed breezes. 
 
 As for my friend, he was a jolly fellow 
 eagerly feasting upon the sweet fruit of heed- 
 less youth ; and, free from all annoyances, 
 anxieties and regrets of any kind, we led 
 together the merriest bachelor life that could 
 be dreamed of. 
 
 185 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Our mornings were devoted to work ; but 
 the afternoons .... but the evenings . . . . 
 all left to our fancies ! 
 
 Alphonse was connected with a large firm, 
 exporters of Louisiana produce ; and on the 
 same floor as the offices, but in rear, and 
 separated from them by a large and almost 
 empty hall, which served occasionally as a 
 store room for samples, he had fitted up a 
 very pretty suite of apartments which we 
 shared like two brothers. 
 
 The partition walls which separated us 
 from the offices were glass-framed from the 
 dado to the ceiling ; so that from our bed- 
 room — it was this apartment especially that 
 we amicably shared — we could see more or 
 less what was going on in the front rooms, 
 through which was our only exit. 
 
 A narrow ante-chamber put us in com- 
 munication with the wareroom. 
 
 Christmas drew near .... New Year’s 
 also, naturally ; and we looked forward to all 
 sorts of good times, of joyous parties with 
 pleasant acquaintances. 
 
 One evening, however, on returning home 
 
 1 86 
 
The Horseshoe 
 
 after a night passed at a planter’s of the neigh- 
 borhood, I found Alphonse in a most gloomy 
 mood. 
 
 A dark colored cat, according to his story, 
 had entered our rooms, that morning ; and 
 John, our old servant, who was, by the way, 
 nearly as dark as the intruder, aided by all 
 available hands, had succeeded in ridding the 
 house of this new guest, but only after endless 
 difficulties. 
 
 For two long days, my friend seemed 
 worried and strangely preoccupied. 
 
 This brilliant talker, always ready for a 
 hearty laugh, was turning taciturn. 
 
 The black cat might have annoyed him, 
 no doubt ; but to have disturbed him to such 
 an extent was beyond all reasonable sup- 
 position. 
 
 “ Look here,” said I, on Christmas Eve, 
 while he was searching every corner of the 
 room in a nervous and impatient manner 
 “what is the matter with you, anyhow?” 
 
 “ The matter with me,” said he, in a 
 furious tone, “ the matter with me is that I 
 have been robbed, — that’s all ! ” 
 
 187 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ Robbed ! ” 
 
 “Yes, robbed! and the worst of it is,” 
 added he, letting his arms fall in dejection, 
 “the worst of it is that I am afraid to sus- 
 pect . ” 
 
 “ Whom do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ I mean John. Do you understand ? To 
 suspect some one hitherto considered honest. 
 Discharging a poor fellow, dishonouring an old 
 servant, with the risk of punishing an innocent 
 man. ... I wouldn’t do that for ten times 
 what I have lost And still . ... ” 
 
 “ But what is it you have lost ? ” 
 
 “ My pocket-book.” 
 
 “With money in it?” 
 
 “ With two bills of five hundred each.” 
 
 “ No 1 ” 
 
 “ Yes, my friend ; I had drawn that 
 money from the bank to conclude a bargain, 
 in the evening, with an old Creole. You 
 know that most of those old Creoles won’t 
 hear of checks ; scarcely will they accept 
 green-backs. Now, the man having missed 
 his appointment, the two bills remained in 
 my pocket-book. It was there, in the inside 
 
 188 
 
The Horseshoe 
 
 pocket of my waistcoat on the back of that 
 chair, when I turned in the night before last ; 
 and now it is gone. Oh ! that cursed black 
 cat ! ” 
 
 “ And you have searched everywhere for 
 it?” 
 
 “ I have turned everything inside out. . . 
 But, no more of this,” he added, seizing me 
 by the arm and turning my head towards the 
 little fancy stove which stood in the centre of 
 our bedroom ; “ it shall be the last time such 
 a stupid thing will happen to me.” 
 
 “ What is that ? ” 
 
 “ A horseshoe, which I have just found on 
 the street. I can defy bad luck now.” 
 
 And sure enough, I saw the gleam of a 
 half-worn and polished horseshoe balanced on 
 the central ornament of the little heater. 
 
 “ And you believe. . . ? ” said I with a 
 smile. 
 
 “ Yes, I believe ! ’’ he interrupted with 
 conviction. “You shall see for yourself.” 
 
 “ Well, then, let us get to dinner ; we 
 shall drink the health of the wizard who is 
 to bring back the star of good luck to our 
 
 189 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 horizon. If he only could bring back your 
 pocket-book ! ” 
 
 “ Who knows ? At all events, let us 
 dine ; we shall sup after midnight mass. I 
 have ordered some good croquignoles at 
 Victor’s to remind us of our home.” 
 
 “ A good idea ! but is midnight mass of 
 great importance to you ? ” 
 
 “ Of course. The artists of the Opera 
 are going to sing at the Jesuits’, you know.” 
 “ Then you shall go alone, for I have an 
 appointment for high mass to-morrow.” 
 
 “ And what about the croquignoles ? ” 
 “You’ll take some home with you, that’s 
 all.” 
 
 And thus it happened that on the 25th 
 of December, 1870, by one o’clock in the 
 morning, I was sleeping alone — our servant 
 having his lodging elsewhere — in our bachelor 
 quarters of Poydras street, in the city of 
 New Orleans, while, under the illuminated 
 vaults of the churches, resounded the joyful 
 carols of that mysterious Christmas night so 
 dear to all Christian hearts. 
 
 Suddenly, I awoke. 
 
 190 
 
The Horseshoe 
 
 A noise was heard in the direction of the 
 offices. 
 
 “ Here is Alphonse coming in,” said I to 
 myself ; “ I should have left the gas lighted.” 
 
 Now, for some weeks past, a strange ex- 
 citement had reigned in New Orleans. 
 
 People talked of nothing else but burglars 
 and burglaries. 
 
 Every morning, the newspapers contained 
 accounts of broken doors, of forced drawers, 
 of plundered safes. 
 
 The police were of no avail. The bold 
 thieves set watchmen and detectives at 
 defiance with extraordinary skill and un- 
 heard of audacity. 
 
 While they were apparently cornered at 
 one point, they operated in another direction, 
 and generally with successful result. 
 
 The plundering of iron safes was their 
 principal specialty, and when the same 
 resisted picklocks and other instruments, 
 they used gun-cotton, nitro-glycerine or 
 any other kind of explosive to break open 
 hinges and safety locks. 
 
 In short, the city was constantly upon 
 the alert. 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Now, to return to my narrative: at the 
 very moment when I was making the remark 
 that I ought to have left the gas lighted to 
 guide my companion, I perceived, on turning 
 my head, a faint and intermittent reflection 
 playing on the glass partition of our room. 
 
 “ So much the better,” thought I ; “he 
 has a light.” 
 
 I waited. 
 
 No footsteps — complete silence. 
 
 “ What is he about ? ” I muttered, kneeling 
 on my bed to look in the direction of the 
 offices. 
 
 “ Why, he is not alone ! ” said I, somewhat 
 surprised ; “ and what has he got to do at the 
 cashier’s office ? ” 
 
 At the same moment, the light of a dark 
 lantern flashed across my face, and I saw two 
 shadows bending over one of the safes of the 
 establishment ; I even heard the clicking of 
 the safety knob. 
 
 A thought, rapid as a flash of lightning, 
 made me shiver from head to foot. 
 
 No doubt, they were burglars. 
 
 What was going to happen? 
 
 193 
 
The Horseshoe 
 
 Would the thieves be satisfied with the 
 plundering of the offices ? 
 
 Would they venture in my direction? 
 
 And then .... 
 
 How to escape ? how to give an alarm ? 
 how defend myself? I was in a closed trap, 
 without a weapon, without even a stick. 
 
 I was even unable to dress, for fear the 
 slightest noise might attract the attention of 
 the ruffians, and reveal my presence. 
 
 On the other hand, it was folly to stay in 
 bed. 
 
 A thought came to me : the horseshoe ! 
 
 And here I am creeping out of my sheets 
 as cautiously as possible ; and stealthily, 
 quietly, slowly, I made my way towards the 
 stove where I saw, glittering vaguely in the 
 pale light of the night, the only weapon a 
 mere hazard had left to my disposal. 
 
 A moment later I stood in the ante- 
 chamber, half hidden behind the frame of 
 the door opening on the back store, in night 
 gown, with chattering teeth and shaking 
 limbs, holding my breath, the perspiration 
 of anguish on my forehead, a desperate 
 
 193 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 pang in my heart, and the horseshoe in my 
 hand. 
 
 One is generally more t'mid abroad than 
 at home. Besides, to be started from sleep 
 as I had been, is not calculated to give con- 
 fidence. I was terribly afraid. 
 
 Did the waiting last long ? I cannot say ; 
 but it seemed an age to me. 
 
 Of what the thieves had done in the 
 meanwhile, I had no idea. I had lost my 
 head, and I waited for the end, with only one 
 hope : that the burglars, satisfied with their 
 plunder, would start off without discovering me. 
 
 That hope was vain. 
 
 The two shadows which seemed mon- 
 strously tall, left the offices and were coming 
 straight toward me, the light of the lanterns 
 wandering right and left as if to explore the 
 premises, and at last falling right on the open 
 door, where, dumb with terror, and more dead 
 than alive, I expected the catastrophe which 
 surely could not fail to be near at hand. 
 
 At this critical moment, the courage of 
 despair sprang up in my heart, and I recovered 
 my coolness for one instant. 
 
 194 
 
The Horseshoe 
 
 I considered the situation. 
 
 I said to myself that there was only one 
 chance of escape left to me : not to wait the 
 assault but to fell one of the enemy by a 
 first blow, and then go for the other, man 
 to man. 
 
 Not a second elapsed between the thought 
 and its execution. 
 
 The two men advanced almost entirely 
 lost in the dark, their reflectors projecting two 
 cones of light right before them. 
 
 It was then that I suddenly appeared, as 
 white as a ghost in the lighted opening of 
 the door ; and rapid as a thunderbolt, uttering 
 a wild cry of rage, I shot out my weapon with 
 all my strength and with terrible precision, 
 right at the head of one of the supposed 
 bandits. 
 
 Clic ! . . . . a sharp and metallic sound 
 was heard, together with a formidable voice 
 yelling : 
 
 “ Damn it ! don’t kill the police ! ” 
 
 The reaction made me stagger ; it was 
 so sudden that I could hardly stammer a 
 word of excuse to the poor guardian of the 
 
 195 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 peace whose death I was so nearly having 
 on my conscience. 
 
 All was explained. 
 
 Leaving for the midnight mass, Alphonse 
 had inadvertently left the big iron door which 
 led to our apartments unclosed ; the spring 
 lock had not caught. 
 
 The two policemen, particularly on the 
 lookout for signs of burglary, had, on their 
 night watch, pushed the door, and hnding it 
 unlocked, entered the house in search of 
 possible mischief 
 
 They had visited the offices, examined the 
 iron safes, and were just completing their 
 inspection by a tour about the other parts of 
 the building, when my weapon had struck 
 and broken the brass number which shone on 
 the front of my man’s shako. 
 
 If the blow had struck two inches lower, 
 the unfortunate man would have been killed. 
 
 I recovered by degrees, and when my 
 friend Alphonse returned from church puz- 
 zled to see the door open, he found me busy 
 uncorking a bottle of old Kentucky Bourbon, 
 to restore my nerves in the first place, and 
 
 196 
 
The Horseshoe 
 
 then to drink the health of my would-be 
 burglars, two good Irish fellows who laughed 
 at my frenzy with mouths split open to the 
 ears. 
 
 “ Here’s to your luck ! ” they exclaimed 
 with the most enthusiastic spirit. 
 
 “ Here’s to your luck, old friends ! ” 
 answered I with no less undisguised satis- 
 faction. 
 
 “ Merry Christmas ! ” intervened Alphonse 
 coming in ; “ here are the croquignoles ! ” 
 
 “ Merry Christmas and a happy New 
 Year ! ” 
 
 “ God bless ye all, and Erin go bragh ! ” 
 
 My comrade was soon acquainted with 
 the situation. 
 
 “ You see, old fellow,” he said to me, 
 “ that it is good sometimes to have a horse- 
 shoe near one’s hand.” 
 
 “ It is better anyhow than to have it in 
 the face,” said the policeman who had so 
 narrowly escaped my blow. 
 
 “ By the way,” I remarked, “ speaking of 
 the horseshoe, what has become of it?” 
 
 “ I don’t know,” said one of the patrol men. 
 
 197 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ Neither do I,” said the other. 
 
 “ The fact is, I did not hear it fall,” said I. 
 
 “ Let us look for it” 
 
 And armed with candles and with the 
 two lanterns, we began to search for the 
 horseshoe in every possible corner of the 
 place. 
 
 “ But where could it be ? ” 
 
 “ It cannot be very far, anyway.” 
 
 “ To get out of the room, it should have 
 passed through the glass partition.” 
 
 “ And we heard no sound whatever.” 
 
 “ And not a pane broken.” 
 
 “Strange, isn’t it?” 
 
 “ Unless it be on the top of that. . . ” 
 ventured one of the policemen. 
 
 And he pointed out a pile of empty 
 barrels standing endwise in one corner of 
 the store, and which almost reached the 
 ceiling. 
 
 “ It is impossible ! ” 
 
 “ Well, I shall judge for myself,” said Pat. 
 “ Lend me your shoulders, Michael.” 
 
 And Pat climbed the pile of old 
 barrels, which resounded joyfully under the 
 
 198 
 
The Horseshoe 
 
 pressure and hammering of his hands and 
 knees. 
 
 At last he reached the summit 
 
 “ Hurrah, boys ! ” cried he, “ here’s the 
 beggar!” 
 
 And he triumphantly brandished the 
 horseshoe. 
 
 Suddenly : 
 
 “ Hold on I ” said he ; “ there’s something 
 else. What’s this ? A pocket-book, by 
 Jove!” 
 
 “My pocket-book!” exclaimed Alphonse. 
 
 And the brave policeman almost fell 
 into our arms, with the pocket-book in his 
 hand. 
 
 “ It wouldn’t have remained there twenty 
 years,” said he. “ Good hiding place. Pretty 
 smart, the thief.” 
 
 Alphonse was hugging me, laughing to 
 tears. 
 
 “ Friend, friend,” said he, “ the horseshoe ! 
 will you believe in it now ? ” 
 
 But after a while his face took an expres- 
 sion of sadness, and he threw the pocket-book 
 on his bed. 
 
 199 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “Oh! John,” said he, with a gesture of 
 discouragement, “ I would have risked a for- 
 tune in his hands. Who can be trusted 
 now ? ” 
 
 In the morning, John made his appear- 
 ance, and between us three, we found the 
 key to the enigma. 
 
 From the waistcoat hanging on the back 
 of the chair, the pocket-book had dropped 
 into a boot which had happened to lie right 
 underneath. 
 
 The infernal black cat, chased by all the 
 broom-sticks of the establishment, had taken 
 refuge on the pile of whisky barrels. The 
 boot, thrown by Alphonse’s supple wrist, had 
 turned out the animal, but had fallen back 
 empty. 
 
 The pocket-book had remained on the 
 top of the pile of barrels ; and, as nobody 
 would ever have suspected its presence in 
 such a place, it might, in spite of Pat’s 
 opinion, have stayed there twenty years 
 and more, had it not been for the horse- 
 shoe. 
 
 As for good old John, if he is still living. 
 
 200 
 
The Horseshoe 
 
 he doubtless remembers the Christmas box 
 he took home that evening. 
 
 And as for me, I never thought one 
 could be so terribly scared on a Christmas 
 Eve. 
 
 201 
 
RIC, crac, girls and boys ! 
 Parlons, parlee, par- 
 low ! The whole 
 thing if you want to 
 know, pass the spittoon 
 to Fiddle Joe ; sacatabi, 
 sac-d-tabac, all who are 
 deaf will please draw 
 back." 
 
 It is hardly necessary 
 to mention that the narra- 
 tor who thus commenced 
 his speech was Fiddle Joe 
 himself, my friend Fiddle 
 Joe, presiding over a veilUe de contes (a 
 story telling party), on Christmas Eve 
 at the blacksmith’s, old Jean Bilodeau. 
 
 202 
 
Tom Cariboo 
 
 Poor old Bilodeau, it is over fifty years 
 now since I heard the sound of his anvil, and 
 I fancy I can see him yet, sitting in the 
 light, with his elbows on his knees, and the 
 shank of his short pipe tightly held between 
 his three remaining teeth. 
 
 Fiddle Joe was a queer kind of a fellow, 
 very interesting and very popular, who had 
 spent his youth in the shanties, and was very 
 fond of relating his travelling adventures in 
 the pays d'en haut, the timber lands of the 
 Ottawa, the Gatineau and the St. Maurice. 
 
 That day he happened to have a fit 
 of inspiration. 
 
 He had been compere in the morning, 
 which meant he had stood as godfather to a 
 new-born child ; and, as the accessories of the 
 ceremony had brought a slight breeze into 
 the sails of his natural eloquence, his stories 
 went on marvellously. 
 
 All camp and forest incidents of course : 
 fights, casualities, fishings extraordinary, mi- 
 raculous hunting exploits, visions, sorcery, 
 feats of all kinds; he had a collection to suit 
 every taste. 
 
 203 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “Do tell us a Christmas story, Joe, if you 
 know one, to fill up time until we leave for 
 church,” cried a girl by the name of Ph^mie 
 Boisvert, 
 
 And Fiddle Joe, who prided himself on 
 knowing what was due to the fair sex, had 
 responded by the characteristic formula as 
 above. Then, after having moistened his 
 throat with a finger deep of Jamaica, and 
 lighted his pipe at the candle, with one of 
 those long cedar splinters which were used 
 by our country folk before, and even after 
 the invention of phosphorus matches, he 
 opened his narrative in the following terms : 
 
 This is to tell you, my friends, that, on 
 that year, we had gone rafting above Bytown, 
 at the elbow of a small river called La 
 Galeuse, a funny name but which is of no 
 importance to what I am going to relate. 
 
 We were fifteen in our camp : beginning 
 with the boss, and ending with the choreboy. 
 
 Nearly all were good men, not quarrelsome, 
 not given to cuss words — of course I don’t 
 speak of a little innocent swearing here and 
 there to keep things going — and not drunk- 
 
 204 
 
Tom Cariboo 
 
 ards — with the exception of one, I must 
 acknowledge — a tough one indeed. 
 
 As for this fellow, boys, he was not 
 exactly what may be called a drunkard : 
 when he happened to come face to face with 
 a demijohn, or when his lips met those of 
 flask or bottle, he was no longer a man, he 
 was a regular funnel. 
 
 He came somewhere back of Three Rivers. 
 
 His real name was Thomas Baribeau ; 
 but as our foreman, who was Irish, had 
 always some difficulty over this French name, 
 we had nicknamed him “TOM CARIBOO.” 
 
 Thomas Baribeau — Tom Cariboo — it sound- 
 ed pretty much the same, as you see. At all 
 events, it was the fellow’s nom de guerre, and 
 the boss had caught it as easily as though it 
 had been a name freshly imported from Cork. 
 
 Anyhow, to speak in polite terms, Tom 
 Cariboo, or Thomas Baribeau, as you wish, 
 had a galvanized-iron throat of the first 
 quality, and he was, moreover, a patented 
 ruffian ; but something out of the common, 
 to give the Devil his due. 
 
 When I think of all I have heard him say 
 
 205 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 against God, the Blessed Virgin, the good 
 
 angels, the saints of Heaven and all the 
 
 # 
 
 Holy Trinity taken together, I still feel a 
 shiver down my back. 
 
 Oh ! the worthless swagger, what a scamp 
 he was ! 
 
 He swore, he lied, he cursed his father 
 and mother five or six times a day, he never 
 said a word of prayer ; in short, I don’t hesi- 
 tate to say that his miserable carcase, with 
 his soul into the bargain, was not worth, 
 with due respect to the company, the wag of 
 a dog’s tail. That’s my opinion. 
 
 There were not a few in our crowd who 
 swore to having seen him on four paws, at 
 night, in the fields, roving about in the shape 
 of some devilish loup-garou. 
 
 As for me, my friends, I saw the brute on 
 all fours several times, but, take my word, 
 he was neither playing the loup-garou, nor 
 anything so respectable, I assure you : he was 
 too beastly drunk for that. 
 
 Anyhow, I must tell you that, for some 
 time, I was one of those who thought if the 
 rascal practised any sorcery at all, he had a 
 
 206 
 
Tom Cariboo 
 
 preference for the chasse-galerie ; for, one 
 night, Titoine Pelchat, one of our road 
 cutters, had spied him coming down a big 
 tree, when the pagan had told him : “ Toine, 
 
 curse my soul ! if you ever mention a word 
 of this to anybody. I’ll rip you cold, that’s 
 all ! ” 
 
 Of course. Titoine had not failed to tell 
 everybody in the shanty, but in the greatest 
 confidence. 
 
 If you don’t know what the chasse-galerie 
 is, my friends, I am the man to post you fine 
 on the matter, for the chasse-galerie I can boast 
 of having seen with my own eyes. 
 
 Yes, I, Fiddle Joe, one Sunday afternoon, 
 ’twixt mass and vespers, in full daylight, I saw 
 the infernal machine pass in the air, right in 
 front of the church of St. Jean Deschaillons, 
 on my soul and conscience, as clear as I see 
 you now. 
 
 It was something like a canoe, which 
 travelled, rapidly as an arrow, at about five 
 hundred feet above the earth, manned by a 
 dozen reprobates in red flannel shirts, paddling 
 like damnation, with Satan standing in the 
 
 207 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 stern, steering straight forward in the direc- 
 tion of Three Rivers. 
 
 We could even hear them sing in chorus 
 with all sorts of devilish voices : 
 
 V'la rbon vent ! via Fjoli vent !* 
 
 But I may say there are many who don t 
 require such a display to practise chasse-galerie. 
 
 The regular scalawags like Tom Cariboo, 
 have only to climb up a tree, and launch 
 themselves on a branch, or stick, or anything 
 else, and the Devil drives them on. 
 
 Thus they travel thousands of miles in a 
 single night to concoct God knows what kind 
 of jugglery, in some infernal recess where 
 honest people wouldn’t set foot for a fortune. 
 
 *The origin of this chasse-galerie legend can be traced to the 
 middle ages. In France and Germany, they had what was called the 
 Black Huntsman. It was a fantastic coursing which rode in the air 
 with wild clamour and desperate speed, through the darkness of the 
 night. In French Can.ada, by a curious phenomena of mirage 
 observed in some circumstance similar to that related by Fiddle Joe, a 
 mounted canoe was seen flying through the air, and the same was 
 naturally substituted for the Black Huntsman, who went also, in 
 some Province of France, by the name of Chasse-galerie, It was 
 supposed that the lumbermen —who, by the way, did not enjoy a very 
 enviable reputation— managed through some devilish process, to 
 travel in this way to save fatigue and shorten the distance. 
 
 30 § 
 
Tom Cariboo 
 
 At all events, if Tom Cariboo did not 
 practise chasse-galerie, when he used to steal 
 out alone at night, peeping about to see if 
 anybody watched him, it was certainly not to 
 go to confession, for, to the astonishment of 
 our gang, although there was not a drop of 
 liquor in the whole shanty, the blackguard 
 smelt, every morning, like an old whiskey- 
 cask. 
 
 Where did he get the stuff? 
 
 It was in the latter part of December, and 
 Christmas was drawing near, when another 
 gang working for the same firm, about fifteen 
 miles higher up on the Galeuse, sent word that 
 if we wanted to attend midnight mass, we 
 had only to join them, for a missionary on 
 his way down from the Nipissing would be 
 there to celebrate it. 
 
 “By Jove!” we said, “it is seldom enough 
 that we see an Infant-Jesus in the shanties, 
 let us go ! ” 
 
 We are not angels in the lumber cam{)s, 
 you know that, boys. Even when we don’t 
 plague all the saints in the calendar and 
 scandalize the Bon Dieu from morning till 
 
 209 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 night like Tom Cariboo, one can’t reasonably 
 pass six months in the woods and six months 
 on the rafts every year, without getting a 
 little “off” on his duties. 
 
 But there must be a limit to rascality. 
 Although one may not wear out his knees in 
 the church, or play mistigri every night with 
 the beadle, he likes to remember at times, do 
 you see, that a good Canadian boy has some- 
 thing else than the soul of a dog in the mould 
 of his waistcoat, so to speak. 
 
 Consequently the trip was soon decided 
 upon, and everything carefully stowed for the 
 occasion. 
 
 It was brilliant moonlight; the snow was 
 fine for a tramp ; we could start after supper, 
 be there in time for mass, and back again 
 for breakfast in the morning, in case we 
 could not spend the night over there. 
 
 “You shall go by yourselves, you con- 
 founded fools !” cried Tom Cariboo, with a 
 string of blasphemies, almost splitting his 
 knuckles with a blow of his fist on the 
 shanty table. 
 
 As you may well imagine, none of us 
 
Tom Cariboo 
 
 thought of kneeling down to coax the ruffian. 
 The absence of such a parishioner could not 
 spoil the ceremony, and there was no need 
 of his sweet breathing voice to intone the 
 sacred hymns. 
 
 “ Well, if you don’t wish to go,” said the 
 foreman, “ do as you please, my dear fellow. 
 You’ll stay here to watch the fire. And since 
 you don’t care about seeing God,^ I hope you 
 won’t see the Devil, while we are away.” 
 
 Well then, boys, off we go, with belts 
 tight around the waists, snow shoes well 
 fastened at the toes of our moccasins, each 
 with his little bag of eatables on his shoulder, 
 and a twist of tobacco right behind his teeth. 
 
 As we had only to follow the frozen bed 
 of the river, the road was a trifle of course ; 
 and we marched on, singing “ La Boulangere” 
 on the fine, levelled, white snow, under a sky 
 as transparent as crystal, without a crevice 
 or jolting to hamper our progress. 
 
 All I can say, my friends, is that merry 
 parties of that kind are far between in shanty 
 life. 
 
 ’Pon my word, I fancied we could hear 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 the old church bell pealing : “ Come on ! 
 
 come on ! ” as in the good old times ; and 
 more than once, bless my soul ! I couldn’t 
 help turning round and looking back to see 
 if we were not followed by some of the fine 
 little Canadian trotters of home, with manes 
 floating in the wind, and a row of merry 
 bells ringing at their martingales. 
 
 That’s what sharpens the wit of a country 
 boy, I tell you. And you ought to have 
 
 seen Fiddle Joe paddling his canoe that 
 night ! 
 
 1 suppose it is useless to tell you that 
 our midnight mass was not as brilliant as 
 an archbishop’s ceremony. 
 
 The vestments of the priest were not 
 exactly what may be called imposing; there 
 was no danger of being blinded by the glare 
 of the altar decoration ; the singers’ wind- 
 pipes were not oiled like a nightingale’s 
 throat, and the acolytes would doubtless 
 have showed a more natural gait with 
 shoulder under a canthook than a censer 
 at arm’s length. 
 
 You may add, besides, that there wasn’t 
 
 212 
 
Tom Cariboo 
 
 even the shadow of an Infant-Jesus ; which, 
 as you all know, is no small drawback to 
 a Christmas performance. 
 
 To tell the truth, the good old man Job 
 himself couldn’t have been more poorly fitted 
 to say his daily mass. 
 
 But no matter, there are lots of church 
 services with music and gilded ornaments 
 which are not worth the one we had that 
 night, my friends, take Fiddle Joe’s word for it! 
 
 It reminded us of old times, do you see, 
 of the old parish, of the old home, of the old 
 mother, and all that. 
 
 Good gracious me ! you all know that 
 Fiddle Joe is no squinny nor crying baby ; 
 well, I had never done passing my quid from 
 one cheek to the other to control my emotion. 
 
 But that’s enough about this part ; let us 
 see what had happened to Tom Cariboo 
 during our absence. 
 
 I need not tell you that, after the mass 
 was over, we returned to our camp by the 
 same way, so that it was full daylight when 
 we reached the shanty. 
 
 At first, we were greatly surprised not to 
 
 213 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 see a single thread of smoke rising from the 
 chimney; but we were still more astonished when 
 we found the door wide open, the stove without 
 an ember, and not a trace of Tom Cariboo. 
 
 As true as I live, our first thought was 
 that the Devil had carried him away. A 
 
 worthless chap like him, do you see. . . 
 
 But, after all, that was no reason for not 
 looking for him. 
 
 Hard enough it was to look for him, for 
 not a bit of snow had fallen for several days, 
 and the consequence was there were thous- 
 ands of foot-prints around the shanty and 
 even in the surrounding woods, all so well 
 crossed and mixed up together, that it was 
 impossible to make out anything of them. 
 
 Fortunately the boss had a very smart 
 dog : Polisson, as we used to call him for a 
 pet name. 
 
 “ Search, Polisson ! ” said we. 
 
 And off goes Polisson searching out right 
 and left, his nose in the snow, wagging his 
 tail, while the rest of us followed on with a 
 double-barrelled gun loaded with bullets, and 
 which I carried myself. 
 
 214 
 
Tom Cariboo 
 
 A good gun in a shanty is like the petti- 
 coat of a woman in a family. Remember that, 
 my friends. 
 
 We had not been two minutes peeping 
 through the branches, when our dog suddenly 
 stood still in his tracks, trembling like a leaf 
 Ton my word, if he had not been ashamed 
 I think the scamp would have made a right 
 about for the house. 
 
 As for me, I threw up my gun and stepped 
 forward. 
 
 You’ll never imagine, my friends, what I 
 saw right in front of me, on the slope of a 
 ravine where the wood was thicker and the 
 snow heavier than elsewhere. . . 
 
 It wasn’t funny at all, I tell you. Or 
 rather, it would have been very funny, if it 
 hadn’t been so fearful. 
 
 Just fancy that our Tom Cariboo was 
 roosted in the fork of a big wild cherry 
 tree, pale as a winding-sheet, his eyes start- 
 ing out of their sockets, at the muzzle of 
 a she-bear who clung to the trunk about 
 two feet below him. 
 
 Thunder ! Fiddle Joe is not a man to 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 skedaddle when called upon to face a squall, 
 you all know that ; well, this terrible sight 
 made my blood whirl up from my toes to 
 the nape of my neck. 
 
 ” This is the time not to miss your aim 
 my poor Fiddle Joe,” said I to myself. 
 “ Point blank ! or God save your soul ! ” 
 
 Shifting was no use : bing ! bang ! . . . 
 I aimed and shot both barrels at once, my 
 two bullets striking the beast right between 
 the shoulders. 
 
 She gave a growl, stretched her paws, 
 swung for a moment, and then fell head- 
 long with her back broken. 
 
 It was high time. My gun was still 
 smoking, when I saw another mass tum- 
 bling down from the tree. 
 
 It was Tom Cariboo, who spread himself 
 fainting and sprawling right across the dying 
 she-bear. He was terribly torn by her claws, 
 which had struck him more than once, and 
 his hair. . . Well, now, try and guess, my 
 friends. . . His hair had all turned white ! 
 
 Yes, as white as snow. Fear had turned 
 his hair white in a single night, as true as 
 
 216 
 
After which it ims the hear we had to drag 
 to the camp " 
 
 PaRre 216 
 
Tom Cariboo 
 
 I intend to take un ftit coup by and by, 
 with the grace of God, and the permission 
 of Uncle Bilodeau, who shan’t lose anything 
 by it. 
 
 Yes, honestly, the rascal had suddenly 
 grown so old, that some of us would not 
 believe it was the same man. 
 
 We hurriedly made a kind of hand-barrow 
 with branches, and we laid the poor fellow 
 on it, cautiously handling that portion of his 
 body which had been damaged by the bear’s 
 claws; and so carried him back to the shanty 
 half dead, and frozen nearly as hard as a 
 piece of Bologna sausage. 
 
 After which, it was the bear we had to 
 drag to the camp. 
 
 But here’s the fun of it. 
 
 You may call me a liar if you wish; it 
 wasn’t credible, but the infernal beast seemed 
 to have inherited poor Tom’s most character- 
 istic quality, and was smelling of rum like a 
 seasoned cask, so much so that Titoine Pel- 
 chat said it gave him a mind to lick the 
 animal. 
 
 But it was no miracle. 
 
 217 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 You know, my friends — if you don’t, 
 Fiddle Joe will tell you — that the bears 
 don’t spend their winters working hard as 
 we do, poor lumbermen building rafts for 
 the spring. 
 
 So far are they from working, that they 
 haven’t even the energy to eat. 
 
 At the first frosts of Autumn, they dig 
 a hole between the roots of a tree, and lie 
 there for the winter, buried alive in the snow 
 which the animal’s breath melts from the 
 inside, so as to form a kind of oven where 
 they spend the whole season, half asleep 
 like marmots, and licking their paws for a 
 living. 
 
 Our own, that is Tom Cariboo’s bear, had 
 chosen the roots of that particular cherry tree 
 to shelter himself, while Tom had chosen a 
 forked branch in the same. . . You’ll know 
 what for in a moment. 
 
 C)nly, as you remember that the ground 
 was on a slope, Tom Cariboo — which was 
 quite natural — gained his branch from the 
 upper side of the declivity; and the she-bear 
 — which was natural also — had dug her hole 
 
 218 
 
Tom Cariboo 
 
 from the lower side, where the roots were 
 not so deeply buried in the sod. 
 
 This accounts for these two savages having 
 lived neighbors and almost partners, without 
 having ever met ; each of them being under 
 the impression that he had the exclusive 
 possession of the premises for himself. 
 
 You will probably ask what business Tom 
 Cariboo had in the fork of that tree. 
 
 Well, in that fork there was a hole, and 
 in that hole our drunkard had hidden a jar 
 of high-wines which he had smuggled into 
 the camp, we never exactly knew how. I 
 suppose he had made us tow it under water 
 behind one of our canoes, at the end of a 
 string. 
 
 At all events, he had it ; and almost 
 every night he would sneak out and climb 
 the tree to fill his flask. 
 
 It was from that nest of his that Titoine 
 Pelchat had seen him coming down, that 
 time we spoke of the chasse-galerie ; and 
 that was why, every morning, one could 
 have set the scoundrel on fire, merely by 
 passing a live coal under his nose. 
 
 219 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Well, then, after we had left for the 
 midnight mass, Tom Cariboo had gone to 
 fill his flask out of the hidden demijohn. 
 
 On a merry day like Christmas, of course, 
 the flask was soon emptied, although there 
 was only one drunkard to treat ; and Tom 
 returned to his cupboard to renew his 
 stock. 
 
 Unfortunately, if the flask was empty, it 
 was not the case with its master ; on the 
 contrary, its master was too full. 
 
 The demijohn, carelessly handled and 
 uncorked, overflowed on the other side of 
 the cherry tree, right on the muzzle of the 
 she-bear. 
 
 At first, the animal had naturally licked 
 her chops, sniffing ; and then, finding that 
 this kind of rain had a peculiar taste and 
 smell, she had opened her eyes. Her eyes 
 open, the whisky had flowed into them. 
 
 High-wines, friends ! it’s no use asking if 
 the beast awoke for good. 
 
 On hearing her howls, Tom Cariboo began 
 to descend the tree, but not a bit ! Stop, 
 boy ! The bear, having also heard a noise, 
 
 220 
 
Tom Cariboo 
 
 had walked around the tree, and before the 
 poor devil was half way down, she had 
 clapped a destroying paw on the most 
 prominent part 
 of the descend- 
 ing intruder. 
 
 But the 
 mo n ster was 
 too torpid to 
 do more ; and, 
 while our hea- 
 then was climb- 
 ing back up the 
 tree, bleeding 
 and terrified, she 
 remained cling- 
 ing to the bark, 
 without being 
 able to follow 
 further up. 
 
 That’s what 
 had happened. 
 
 You see, that 
 if the bear smelt of whisky, it was no miracle. 
 
 Poor Tom Cariboo! between ourselves, it 
 
 Tom Cariboo began lo descend. 
 
 221 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 took three long weeks to repair his dam- 
 ages. 
 
 Never could we convince the repentant 
 drunkard that it was not Satan who had 
 appeared to him, and who had thus lacer- 
 ated his. . . feelings. 
 
 You ought to have seen him, begging 
 even the' dog’s pardon for all his oaths and 
 all his nightly sprees. 
 
 He couldn’t sit down, of course ; and so 
 had to kneel. 
 
 It was his punishment for having refused 
 to do so on Christmas Eve. 
 
 And lifting his glass to his lips. Fiddle 
 Joe added : 
 
 Cric, crac ! . . Sacatabi sac-a-tabac ! . . 
 Here’s to your luck, old Jack ! 
 
 222 
 
“'HAT’S a rattling fine 
 story!” said old Jean 
 Bilodeau ; “ but haven’t you 
 got another one? There 
 is plenty of time yet for 
 midnight mass.” 
 
 “ Yes, tell us another 
 story, Uncle Joe,” said 
 Phemie Boisvert ; “ don’t 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 you know any about that Chasse-galerie you 
 were speaking of just now ? ” 
 
 “ Good ! ” said we all around, “ a Christmas 
 story of the Chasse-GalerieV' 
 
 Fiddle Joe had never to be asked twice: 
 
 “ Very well,” said he. “ Cric crac, boys 
 and girls . . . Parlous, parlee, pa^low ...” 
 
 Et cetera. And he went on : 
 
 This is to tell you, my friends, that, on 
 that year, I was hired by old Dawson, for 
 squaring timber at a lumber shanty he had 
 opened at the entrance of the Rat River, on 
 the St. Maurice, together with a gang of 
 raftsmen from Three Rivers. 
 
 Although the voyageurs of Three Rivers 
 are a pretty rough lot, as you will see by 
 and by, the winter we spent there was peace- 
 ful enough, owing to a very extraordinary 
 accident which happened to one of us on 
 Christmas Eve, and which I am going to 
 relate. 
 
 As you all know, I reckon, for squaring a 
 piece of timber it requires two men, one to 
 handle the squaring-axe, and the other to 
 pick and butt ; so the boss had mated me 
 
 224 
 
with a queer fellow whom his comrades had 
 nicknamed Titange. 
 
 Titange is a contraction for petitange, 
 which means “ little angel.” A pretty odd 
 name for a shantyman, but I couldn’t help it, 
 could I? What was the origin of that name? 
 
 Looked like a fritter out. of the frying fan. 
 
 It appears the fellow had got it through his 
 mother. 
 
 His father, Johnny Morissette, was as 
 strongly built a man as could be found 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 among the St. Maurice voyageurs in his day, 
 and although of a quiet character, was par- 
 ticularly proud of his muscles. Fancy how 
 cheap the poor man felt when, one fine spring, 
 on returning home after a shanty wintering, his 
 wife handed him a small rickety bit of a tot, 
 who looked like a fritter out of the frying 
 pan, saying : “ Kiss your son, my friend ! ” 
 
 “What is this?” exclaimed Johnny Moris- 
 sette, who nearl}^ choked himself swallowing 
 his quid. 
 
 “ This is a little angel that the good God 
 has sent us while you were away.” 
 
 “ An angel ! Bless my soul, my dear 
 woman. I’d just as soon take it for a shabby 
 attempt at a scarecrow ! ” 
 
 But the poor fellow had to take the brat 
 as he was, of course — there was no help for 
 it ; and, as he seldom missed the chance of a 
 joke, when he saw one of his chums passing 
 his house, he would shout out : 
 
 “ Hello ! won’t you come and have a look 
 at my ‘ little angel ? ’ ” 
 
 And so the boy grew up known by all as 
 Johnny Morissette’s little angel ; and with 
 
 226 
 
Titange 
 
 time he came to bear no other name but that 
 of Titange. 
 
 When I talk of his growing up, it would 
 be a mistake to think that he ever turned 
 out to be anything like a patch to his father. 
 Far from it : he was born a weakling and he 
 remained a weakling. In short, as a man, he 
 was a dead failure. 
 
 This must have been a great worry to 
 him, for, take my word, in the whole of my 
 life, whether in the woods or on the rafts, I 
 never saw such a blazing fire-brand. Although 
 he was no bigger than my fist, as a make up, 
 I suppose, he fussed, and fumed, and swore, 
 and stormed like a whole shanty gang, all by 
 himself. At every turn and mostly for no 
 purpose, he would viciously swing his axe, 
 and promise nothing else but to kill, to 
 destroy, to slaughter, to rip you open and 
 tear your heart out. 
 
 Those who knew no better took him for 
 a demon and were scared to death ; but I 
 could size him up better than that. And 
 then, as we were mated together, do you see, 
 I had to bear with him such as he was. The 
 
 227 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 consequence was, that, in spite of his rough 
 ways, we remained pretty good friends ; and 
 so we had a chat now and again at our 
 work, without wasting time of course. 
 
 One morning — it was the day before 
 Christmas — the fellow dropped his axe, and 
 started staring at me like some one having a 
 mighty big thing to tell. 
 
 I stopped also, and looked at him. 
 
 “Uncle Joe ! ” said he, spying around. 
 “What’s up, Titange?” said I. 
 
 “ Are you a safe man for a secret ? ” 
 
 “ Did you ever hear me tattle about ? ” 
 
 “ No, but I would like to know if I could 
 trust you with something very particular.” 
 
 “ Well, that depends.” 
 
 “ What do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ I mean if there is no mischief in- 
 tended .... 
 
 “ There is no mischief whatever ; the ques- 
 tion is to go and have a little jollification 
 to-night at old Calice Doucet’s of the Ban- 
 lieue ? ” 
 
 “ Which Banlieue ? ” 
 
 “ The Banlieue of Three Rivers, to be sure 
 
 228 
 
“ Every Chi'istmas Ere there is ahvay.s 
 dancing hop 
 
 nice 
 
 Pa (ft* aaK 
 
Titange 
 
 Old Calice Doucet is a tip-top fiddler, do you 
 see ; on every Christmas Eve there is always 
 a nice dancing hop with pretty girls at his 
 place.” 
 
 “You mean to go dancing at the Banlieue 
 of Three Rivers to-night ! More than two 
 hundred miles through the woods, without 
 roads or teams ! Are you mad ? ” 
 
 “ There is no need of roads or teams.” 
 
 “ How is that ? Do you imagine you can 
 travel as the crow flies?” 
 
 “ One can travel much easier than the crow 
 flies, uncle Joe.” 
 
 “ Over forests and mountains ? ” 
 
 “ Over anything at all.” 
 
 “Ton my word, I don’t understand you.” 
 “Uncle Joe,” said he, glancing once more 
 all around as if to make sure nobody was 
 near by ; “ you must have heard of the 
 
 Chasse-galerie before this, haven’t you ? ” 
 
 “ Of course I have.” 
 
 “ Well ? ” 
 
 “Well, you don’t mean to run Chasse- 
 
 galerie., do you ? ” 
 
 “ Why not ? we are no children.” 
 
 229 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 On my conscience and honor, my friends, 
 on hearing that, the shivers ran down my 
 back. I felt as if a hellish warm breath 
 passed right in my face. I tottered on my 
 legs, and my axe shook so in my hands 
 that twice I missed the chalk line, a thing 
 which had not yet happened to me that fall. 
 
 “ But^ Titange. mv dear fellow,” said I, 
 “have you truly no fear of God?” 
 
 “ Fear of God ! ” exclarmed the ruffian in 
 an outburst of blasphemous laughter. "~l nere 
 is no God around here. Don’t you know 
 we have stored him en cache at the Forge 
 village ? It’s all very well down below, but 
 up the river, with all cautions taken, as long 
 as you are all right with the Devil, every- 
 thing goes.” 
 
 “ Will you hold your tongue, you repro- 
 bate ! ” said I . 
 
 “Now, now, come, uncle Joe!” said he. 
 “ Don’t be such a hayseed. Here, listen to 
 me. I’m going to tell you how the thing is 
 worked.” 
 
 And chopping ahead, he went on quietly 
 to tell me all about the whole infernal con- 
 
 230 
 
Titange 
 
 cern. A true invention of Satan himself, my 
 friends, no more nor less. My flesh crawls 
 only to think of it. 
 
 I must warn you, by the way, that if 
 the town of Three Rivers has a great name 
 for its good people, it has a mighty great 
 one too for those who are not. And if we 
 are to gO/ by the set of worthless scamps it’ 
 supplies every year to the lumber shanties, 
 that reputation is not a stolen one, I tell you ! 
 I know Sorel, and I know Bytown ; and I 
 can stake my word for it, as far as roughs 
 are concerned, there is nothing to beat 
 Three Rivers. 
 
 If you want to know how far those scoun- 
 drels can go, listen. When they start for the 
 shanties in the fall, they are too darn wicked 
 to go to confession, of course ; but as they 
 still dread God somewhat, they put Him en 
 cache, as they say; which means they lock 
 Him up. 
 
 How do they go through that hellish 
 game? This is what I am going to explain, 
 at least according to what Titange told me. 
 
 First, they get a bottle of rum which has 
 
 231 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 been filled up at midnight, on All Souls’ day, 
 by the left hand of a fellow standing heels 
 over head. This bottle they hide well in the 
 bottom of the canoe, and they start for the 
 St. Maurice Forges, the first station on their 
 way up. 
 
 That’s where the fine work of the devilish 
 trick is gone through. Remember, the chapel 
 of the village has a flight of wooden door 
 steps. Well, when it is pitch dark, one of 
 the scalawags lifts up one of the planks, while 
 another empties the bottle in the hole, say- 
 ing : 
 
 “ Gloria patri^ gloria patro, gloria patruml’ 
 
 To which the other replies, replacing the 
 plank as it was : 
 
 “ Let the cat free, let the wind blow, let 
 the boys drum I ” 
 
 “After which,” added Titange, “if you are 
 all right with old Harry, you need not fear 
 anything for the whole winter. Beyond the 
 Pointe-aux-Baptemes, God is nowhere ; no 
 saints, no angels, nothing at all ! One can 
 work the Chasse-galerie every night if he 
 wishes to. The canoe travels like wind at 
 
 232 
 
Beyond the Pointe-aua‘- Bn piemen God h 
 nowhere ” 
 
 Page a.?* 
 
Titange 
 
 hundreds of feet above the earth ; and as 
 long as you do not utter the name of Christ, 
 or of the Virgin, and you take care not to 
 run against the church steeples, you can pad- 
 dle thousands of miles almost in the twink- 
 ling of an eye. Isn’t that smart ? ” 
 
 “ And this is what you are after to- 
 night?” said I. 
 
 “Yes,” he replied. 
 
 “ And you want to take me along with 
 
 o 
 
 you f 
 
 “That’s it. We are five already; if you 
 join us, it will make six : just one at the 
 
 bow, another at the helm, and two paddlers 
 on each side. I have thought of you, uncle 
 Joe, because of your brawny arm, of your 
 sharp sight and your spunk. Now, say yes, 
 and we shall have a high old time to-night.” 
 
 “ What ! and this on the holy Christmas 
 Eve, too . . . ! Do you think of it ? ” said I. 
 
 “ Why, this is nothing but fun, and 
 Christmas is a day of rejoicings, you know 
 that.” 
 
 As you may well think, my friends, al- 
 though Fiddle Joe may not be a Christian of 
 
 233 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 the first water, I couldn’t stand such profanity 
 without being startled. But at the same time 
 I must declare that I had often heard of 
 this invention of Satan called Chasse-galerie ; 
 I had even seen it, as I have already said, 
 in broad daylight, right in front of the church 
 of St. Jean Deschaillons ; and I shall not 
 deny that I was rather anxious to know how 
 those scamps managed the infernal machine. 
 In fact, my friends, to tell you the whole 
 truth, I had a kind of notion to witness the 
 thing with my own eyes. 
 
 “ Well, what have you to say to this, 
 uncle Joe?” said Titange, “are you in it?” 
 “ Ma frune! old fellow,” said I, “I don’t 
 say no. Are you sure there is no danger ? ” 
 “ Not the slightest. I’ll go bail for that.” 
 “ Well, I think I’ll chime in.” 
 
 “Well done! I may depend upon you?” 
 “ Honest I When shall we start ? ” 
 
 “ As soon as the boss is asleep ; at half- 
 past nine, the latest.” 
 
 “ Where ? ” 
 
 “You know where the big drive canoe 
 lies ? ” 
 
 234 
 
Titange 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ That’s the one we’ll take ; don’t fail to 
 be there in time. In less than half an hour 
 we’ll be at old Doucet’s. And then, hurrah, 
 boys, with the ‘ double-double,’ the gigue 
 simple, and the ‘ pigeon- wings.’ You’ll see, 
 uncle Joe, how we twist up a midnight mass, 
 we boys of Three Rivers ! ” 
 
 And so saying the rash fellow started a 
 quickstep on his piece of timber, clogging 
 his heels as if he had been already hopping 
 at old Calice Doucet’s, with the girls of the 
 Banlieue of Three Rivers. 
 
 As for me, my friends, I was far from 
 feeling so merry. In fact, I was more than 
 ill at ease, I was dreadfully scared ; but I 
 had my plan, of course. 
 
 So, I wasn’t late on the spot. At half- 
 past nine sharp, and before the others had 
 turned out, I had time to pin a small pic- 
 ture of the Infant Jesus right on the stem 
 of the craft. 
 
 “ There ! ” said I to myself, “ this is 
 stronger than all the evil spirits of damna- 
 tion ; we shall see what’s going to happen.” 
 
 23s 
 
Christinas in French Canada 
 
 “ All aboard, all aboard, quick ! ” whis- 
 pered Titange, falling in with four other 
 worthless chaps, and taking his place at the 
 stern. “ Uncle Joe, you have keen eyes, sit 
 in front. The others at the paddles ! No 
 scapulars on any of you ? ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “No medals ? ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Nothing holy, you understand ? ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “All right, then. You are ready! Atten- 
 tion now ... I Let every one repeat after 
 me : 
 
 Satan, our master fair, 
 
 Heave us up in the air . . . 
 Wing, wang, wong ! 
 
 Wong, wang, wing ! 
 
 Drive us along 
 
 On the nighfs dark wing ! . . . 
 
 Now paddle on I paddle on, boys ! . . . 
 Damn it, paddle on I 
 
 But it was no go, my friends. Vainly did 
 Titange and his comrades paddle as if to 
 save their lives, the canoe didn’t stir. 
 
 236 
 
Titange 
 
 “ How is this ? ” shouted out Titange, with 
 a dreadful oath. “You did not repeat cor- 
 rect after me ; let us begin over again ! ” 
 
 We began over again, but it was no use ; 
 the craft remained motionless in the snow, 
 like a dead trunk. 
 
 “ By damnation ! cried Titange with a 
 string of oaths ; “ some of you are cheating. 
 Step out, one after the other, we shall see 
 who is the confounded traitor.” 
 
 We stepped out one after the other as 
 he said ; but for no good ; the machine did 
 not move an inch. 
 
 “ By all thunders ! ” swore out the little 
 man, “ I shall go alone ; and may all the 
 devils of the St. Maurice hang the whole set 
 of you by the neck . . . Satan, our master 
 fair 
 
 And the reprobate went on with the 
 devilish imprecation. 
 
 But, far from travelling “ on the night’s 
 dark wing,” Titange couldn’t jump over a 
 fence, and we didn’t see even the wing of a 
 bat. 
 
 The canoe was frozen dead. 
 
 237 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Then, my friends, it was a tempest the 
 sole remembrance of which makes my hair 
 stand on end. 
 
 “ My axe ! my axe ! where is my axe ? ” 
 yelled the ranter; “Til kill! I’ll murder I I’ll 
 massacre ! . . . My axe, I tell you ! ” 
 
 Bad luck ! there was one at the bottom 
 of the canoe. He grabbed the tool, and 
 standing up straight on one of the cross- 
 ings, wild with rage, he swung it three or 
 four times around his head like a desperate 
 maniac. 
 
 It was terrible ; but at the same time it 
 was a real curiosity, my friends, to see this 
 insignificant little bit of a man who looked 
 like a consumptive mosquito, raising such an 
 infernal row. A pack of mad hounds couldn’t 
 have been more noisy. 
 
 The whole shanty flocked out, of course, 
 and witnessed the dreadful scene. 
 
 Titange had it in for the canoe now : 
 “You accursed rascal,” he cried, “I have 
 said all the words correct : you must start, 
 or I’ll know the reason why,” 
 
 And saying so, he darted forth with his 
 
 238 
 
Titange 
 
 axe, to demolish the bow of the craft, where 
 my little picture stood fast on the stem. 
 
 Goodness of my soul ! we had time only 
 to utter a cry. The axe, catching in a branch, 
 had whirled out of his hand, and fallen back 
 right on the outstretched arm of the mis- 
 creant, whom the shock had hurled headlong 
 to the bottom of the canoe. 
 
 The sinews of his wrist were clean 
 cut . . . 
 
 At twelve o’clock that night, the whole 
 shanty, moved by the terrible ordeal, knelt 
 down for once, and fervently offered an hon- 
 est prayer to the newly born Redeemer. 
 
 On New Year, an old missionary visited 
 our camp, and we, as one man, confessed our 
 sins — Titange first of all. 
 
 Full of repentance, and confused for hav- 
 ing so poorly succeeded in putting le bon 
 Dieu en cache, he moreover took advantage 
 of the good priest’s company to make his 
 way down to Three Rivers, without thinking 
 for a moment. I’ll stake my word for it, of 
 sparking with the girls at old Calice Doucet’s 
 of the Banlieue. 
 
 239 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Some two years later, happening to stop 
 at the St. Maurice Forges, I saw, on the 
 steps of the chapel, a poor ailing beggar 
 holding out a hand with fingers crooked, dis- 
 torted and twisted like a Christmas croquig- 
 nole. 
 
 I drew near to give him a penny : it was 
 my former timber mate, old Johnny Moris- 
 sette’s little angel : Titange ! 
 
 And cric^ crac ! . . . Et cetera. 
 
 240 
 
he Loup Garou 
 
 ■\ 
 
 
 — — 
 
 AVE you heard that la 
 belle Merance d Glaude 
 Couture* is going to be 
 married ? ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Well, she is ; the 
 
 * The present story is not wholly original, some of its features 
 being traditional among our peasants under more or less different 
 forns. The louf>sai'OU is nothing else than the wehrwolf of the 
 German legend founded on the belief that some people could trans- 
 
 241 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 banns are to be published next week/' 
 
 “ Married to whom ? ” 
 
 “ Guess.” 
 
 “ It’s pretty hard to guess : la belle 
 
 Merance is surrounded with sweethearts by 
 the score every Sunday that God brings 
 along.” 
 
 “ With Baptiste Octeau, I bet ! ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ It must be to Damase Lapointe, then.” 
 
 “ Not at all. . . Ma foi, it’s just as well to 
 tell you at once : she is going to be married 
 to Captain Gosselin, of St. Nicolas.” 
 
 “To Captain Gosselin, of St. Nicolas?” 
 
 “ Exactly.” 
 
 “Well I declare!” 
 
 “ You don’t say so ! ” 
 
 “ She is to take such a miscreant ? ” 
 
 “ Well, the fellow is well off, you know ; 
 
 form themselves into wolves at pleasure. In French Canada, though, 
 a moral has been added to the fantastic tradition : the loup-garou, 
 here, is not a sorcerer, but a victim of irreligion. A man who has 
 been seven years without partaking of the Easter Sacrament falls a 
 prey to the infernal power, and may be condemned to rove about 
 every night in the shape and skin of a wolf, or any other kind of 
 animal, according to the nature of his sins. A bloody wound only can 
 release him. 
 
 242 
 
The Loup-Garou 
 
 He has made her a present of a nice gold 
 brooch and a diamond ring, and Merance 
 doesn’t sneer at that, I tell you.” 
 
 “ Any how ! I wouldn’t marry him, even 
 though he were a seigneur, and owned all 
 the farms, ©f the pa rt s h.” 
 
 “Neither I: a man who has no religion..” 
 ^Who has not fulfilled his Easter duties 
 for years. . . ” 
 
 “ Who never goes to church. . . ” 
 
 “ Nor to confession. . . 
 
 “ Who is going to be bewitched into some 
 horrible loup-garou some day.” 
 
 “ It’s doomed fate for him, if he passes 
 seven years without absolution for his sins.” 
 “ Poor Merance, it’s too bad ! . . ” 
 
 “’Tis no fun to have your husband con- 
 verted every evening into a beast roaming 
 wildly along the roads, through the woods, 
 God knows where. I would just as soon 
 marry old Harry himself” 
 
 “ It is true that there would be a means 
 of releasing him.” 
 
 “ How?” 
 
 “By wounding him, of course; by pricking 
 
 243 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 his forehead, by cutting his ear, his nose, his 
 tail, anything at all, with some sharp instru- 
 ment, the main thing being to draw blood.” 
 “ And the beast will be again a man ? ” 
 
 “ At once.” 
 
 “ Why, thanks ! As for me, I prefer a 
 man that needs not to be bled.” 
 
 “ So do I,” exclaimed all the girls. 
 
 “You believe in such silly tales!” cried 
 a voice : “ you set of fools 1 ” 
 
 The foregoing conversation was held at 
 an old farmer’s of St. Antoine de Tilly, 
 where a number of young people from the 
 neighborhood had gathered for an epluchette 
 de ble-d'Inde — corn bee — which was to be 
 followed by a griddle cake reveillon. 
 
 As can be seen, the company was indulg- 
 ing in a general chat ; and from one subject 
 to the other, the loup-garou legend had fallen 
 on the tapis. 
 
 Of course it is useless to add that the 
 scene takes us back to a great many years 
 ago, for — fortunately — our country folk give 
 but very little attention now to these queer 
 superstitions of the past 
 
 244 
 
The Loup-Garou 
 
 The interruption brought out by the last 
 speaker is, besides, an evidence that, even in 
 those days, and among our illiterate people, 
 these mysterious traditions found some un- 
 believers. 
 
 “ All these are grandmother’s stories ! ” 
 added the same voice in answer to the 
 almost unanimous protest to which the 
 irreverent sally had given rise. 
 
 “Tut, tut, tut! . . It is not well to treat 
 one’s own grandmother with contempt, my 
 young fellow!” intervened an old woman, 
 who, taking no part in the epluchette, pur- 
 sued silently her knitting at the light of 
 the hearth, which threw fitful and inter- 
 mittent glimmers on her long wrinkled 
 face. 
 
 “ Old people know more than the young,” 
 added she ; “ and when you have trod my 
 path, you’ll not be so ready to scoff at those 
 who believe in the old stories.’ 
 
 “ So you believe in loup-garous, mother 
 Catherine?” said the young interrupter with 
 a provoking smile. 
 
 “ Had you known Joachim Crete as I 
 
 245 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 have, you could not but believe in them 
 also, my friend,” retorted the old woman. 
 
 “ I have already heard of that story of 
 Joachim CrSte,” said one of the hearers ; 
 “ why shouldn’t you tell it, mother Cather- 
 ine ? ” 
 
 I have no objection, said she, dipping 
 her thumb and fore-finger into an old horn 
 snuff-box. It does not harm young folks 
 to know what may happen to those who 
 have no respect for religion and sneer at 
 things they do not understand. It’s an old 
 saying with me that the fear of God is never 
 out of place. 
 
 Unfortunatel}^, poor Joachim Crete didn’t 
 think so. 
 
 He was not precisely what may be called 
 a wicked man, oh no ! but he was like many 
 others of our own time ; he thought of God 
 and performed his duties only when he had 
 nothing else to do. This is not what helps 
 a man ahead, my friends. 
 
 He wouldn’t have cheated a neighbor out 
 of a copper, no doubt ; he observed Lent and 
 Fridays as well as anyone, they said. But he 
 
 246 
 
The Loup-Garou 
 
 partook of the holy sacraments at Easter-time 
 only — once a year and no more ; he winked 
 jeeringly when somebody spoke of the church 
 collections; and besides, without being a regu- 
 
 Joachim Crite was proprietor op a mill." 
 
 lar drunkard, he was fond enough of the drop 
 to go to bed, every Saturday night, too fuddled 
 to mind if his mill was running on Sunday. 
 For I must tell you, my friends, that 
 
 247 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 Joachim Crete was proprietor of a mill, a 
 corn mill, situated in the concession of Be?ms^- 
 jour, on the little river called La Rigole. 
 
 Of course it wasn’t anything like a 
 seigneurial mill, but it worked the best it 
 could, and ground its oats and corn, any 
 way, I fancy I can see it yet, the old 
 
 mill, seated right alongside the cheinin du 
 roi. When we used to go to catechism for 
 our first communion, we little folk never 
 
 failed to stop there for a rest. 
 
 There it was that I got acquainted with 
 
 the wretched man — a man about forty, who 
 had no objection to tease little girls, I may 
 add without any mischievous meaning. 
 
 As he was unmarried, he had fixed up 
 a small dwelling inside the mill, where he 
 lived like a bear with a hired man by the 
 name of Hubert Sauvageau, a fellow who 
 had travelled in the pays d'en haut^ who 
 
 had lived on the rafts, who had been 
 knocking about for years, without — it was 
 evident — having learned much for the benefit 
 of his soul. 
 
 How had he come to settle at St, Antoine 
 
 248 
 
The Loup-Garou 
 
 after such wanderings ? Nobody ever knew, 
 All I can say is that if Joachim Crete was 
 not exactly a model for the parish, it was 
 not his hired man who could give him lessons 
 on principles, as people say. 
 
 With all deference to the company, the 
 fellow had no more religion than a dog. 
 Never was he seen at church ; never did he 
 take off his hat to the Calvary ; he hardly 
 saluted the cure with the end of his fingers 
 when he met him on the road. In fact, he 
 was a man of poor reputation indeed. 
 
 “What’s all this to me?” said Joachim 
 Crete when the matter was referred to in 
 his presence ; “ he is a quiet fellow who 
 never faints at work ; he is reliable, just as 
 sober as myself ; he eats no more than 
 another, and plays checkers to put in the 
 time with me : nobody would give me 
 better satisfaction, even though he wore 
 out his knees, from morning till night, at 
 le chemin de la Croix T 
 
 As you see by his own words, Joachim 
 Crete was a checker player. And a good 
 one too, for if anybody had ever won a 
 
 249 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 game of polonaise against him no one in all 
 St Antoine could boast of having seen him 
 lose more than a partie simple. 
 
 But one must suppose that the fellow 
 Sauvageau was a pretty good match for him, 
 as — especially when the miller had returned 
 home from town in the course of the day 
 with a demijohn — those who passed by the 
 mill in the evening heard them yell, each 
 one in his turn : “ Mang-e ! Souffle'! Franc 
 
 coin! Partie nulle!'' And so forth, as in a 
 rage of ambition. 
 
 But let me reach the adventure you wish 
 me to relate. 
 
 On that day — it was Christmas Eve — and 
 Joachim Crete had returned from Quebec 
 rather tipsy, and — useless to add — with a 
 fine stock of supplies in the box of his 
 cariole for the festivities. 
 
 The whole mill was in merriment. 
 
 My grand uncle, old Jose Corriveau, who 
 had a bagful of grain to mill, called in the 
 evening and said to Joachim Cr^te : 
 
 “You are going to attend midnight mass, 
 of course?” 
 
 250 
 
The Loup-Garou 
 
 A grin was the only answer. It was 
 Hubert Sauvageau coming in, and seating 
 himself in a corner with his pipe. 
 
 “We shall see about that,” he said. 
 
 “ No joke, young men ! ” added old 
 Corriveau, walking out ; “ the midnight mass 
 is not a thing to be missed.” 
 
 And he left, with his whip in his hand. 
 “ Ha ! ha ! ha ! . . ” laughed Sauvageau ; 
 “ but we shall first play a game of checkers, 
 won’t we, monsieur Joachim?” 
 
 “Ten if you wish, old fellow; but before 
 all, we must have a smile,” was the reply. 
 And the spree had commenced. 
 
 At about eleven o’clock, a neighbor by the 
 name of Vincent Dub^ knocked at the door : 
 “Look here, Joachim,” said he, “if you 
 want a place in my berlot to go to the mid- 
 night mass, there is one for you, as I am 
 alone with the old woman.” 
 
 “Thank vou. I’ve got my own horse,” 
 answered Joachim Crete. 
 
 “ Are they going to bother us much 
 longer with their midnight mass?” grumbled 
 Hubert Sauvageau when the door was closed. 
 
 25 » 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “ Let us have a drink,” said the miller. 
 And hurrah with the glasses and the 
 
 checkers ! 
 
 The people who passed by, going to 
 
 church, riding or on foot, said to each 
 
 other : 
 
 “Why, Joachim Crete’s mill is still run- 
 ning ; he must have quantities to grind.” 
 
 “ Surely he won’t go on working on 
 Christmas, will he ? ” 
 
 “ I wouldn’t be surprised.” 
 
 “ Especially if his accursed Sauvageau has 
 a hand in it. . . ” 
 
 And so on. In the meanwhile, the mill 
 
 went on rolling, the game of checkers didn’t 
 stop, and the drinking continued. Toasts 
 were endless. 
 
 Some one knocked at the window : 
 
 “ Hold on, you fellows ; it’s near twelve. 
 The last bell is pealing. It’s not very Chris- 
 tian-like, what you are doing there.” 
 
 Two voices answered : 
 
 “ Go to blazes ! Let us have peace ! ” 
 
 The last passers-by vanished. And the 
 
 mill went on rolling. As the weather was 
 
 252 
 
Look here Joachim^ if you imnf a place in 
 my berlot, there is one for you ” 
 
 I’aK^c a.Si 
 
The Loup-Garou 
 
 calm and quiet, its rumbling noise was heard 
 afar, and the good people hurried away, mak- 
 ing the sign of the Cross on their breast. 
 
 Although the church was nearly two miles 
 distant from the mill Joachim Crete could 
 hear clearly the sound of the bell. At the 
 last toll he felt a kind of remorse : 
 
 “Tis twelve,” said he; “if we raised the 
 paddle -door. . . ” 
 
 “ Pshaw ! are you such a poltroon ? ” said 
 Sauvageau. “ Here ! let us have a horn, and 
 then I’ll make you capot.” 
 
 “ Ah ! well, as to that, you are not fit for 
 it, my young man. . . Help yourself, and 
 here’s your luck ! ” 
 
 “ Here’s yours, monsieur Joachim.” 
 
 They had barely replaced their tumblers 
 on the table, when the last sound of the bell 
 passed over the mill like a whisper in the 
 wind. 
 
 It was as rapid as thought. . . Crac ! . . 
 the mill was stopped dead, just as if a thun- 
 derbolt had broken the machinery. A deep 
 silence followed, through which one could have 
 heard the creeping of a mouse. 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 “What’s the matter?” cried out Joachim 
 Crete. 
 
 “ Some impudent jokers, no doubt,” said 
 the hired man. 
 
 “ Let us go and see, quick ! ” 
 
 A lantern was lit, and our two checker 
 players started with uncertain step in the 
 direction of the undershot-wheel. But vainly 
 did they search and poke everywhere ; all 
 was in good order, nothing seemed to have 
 been interfered with. 
 
 “ This is most extraordinary,” they said, 
 quite nonplussed. 
 
 At all events, they oiled the machine, 
 started her again, and returned to their 
 checker-board — not without making their 
 first call at the table, though. 
 
 “Your health, Hubert.” 
 
 “This is to yours, monsieur Joachim.” 
 
 But hardly were the glasses emptied, when 
 the two men started staring at each other 
 with a bewildered expression : they were 
 
 beastly drunk first of all, and then the 
 mill had become silent once more. 
 
 “ Some confounded rascals have thrown 
 
 25^1 
 
The Loup Garou 
 
 rubbish into the grindstones,” muttered Joa- 
 chim Crete. 
 
 “ Let the devil wring my neck,” jabbered 
 Sauvageau, “if we don’t find what’s wrong 
 this time,” 
 
 And here are once more our two drunk- 
 ards, lantern in hand, prowling everywhere 
 about the mill, stumbling and tripping on 
 everything they came across. 
 
 But all uselessly ; there was nothing the 
 matter either in the grindstones or elsewhere- 
 
 The machine was started again, but 
 ouichte ! half a turn of the wheel, and that 
 was all. The whole mechanism was at a 
 dead stand still. 
 
 “ The Devil take the whole concern ! ” 
 yelled out Joachim Crete; “let us go!” 
 
 A desperate oath was uttered. Hubert 
 Sauvageau, who had orobably entangled 
 his feet in some kind of obstacle, had 
 fallen headlong on the floor like a helpless 
 brute. 
 
 The lantern had gone out of his hand, 
 to be sure ; so that it was pitch dark, and 
 Joachim Crete, who had all he could do to 
 
 255 
 
Christinas in French Canada 
 
 steer himself, had no great mind to go to 
 the rescue of his companion. 
 
 “ Let the rogue look after himself as best 
 he can ! ” said he ; “ I’m going for a drink.” 
 And by the dim light of the candle which 
 glimmered in the distance through the half- 
 opened door, he succeeded, after many stum- 
 bles and slips, to worm his way into the 
 room, where he entered without closing the 
 door behind him, so as to give the loiterer 
 a chance to do the same. 
 
 As soon as he had passed the threshold, 
 you may well imagine that his first thought 
 was to go right to the table where the glasses 
 and bottles stood ; but as he was pouring out 
 a gobletful of rum, swinging on his hips, he 
 heard behind his back something like a groan. 
 
 “ That’s you ? ” he said without turning ; 
 “ here you are, come on ! ” 
 
 Another moaning answered, stronger than 
 the first. 
 
 “ What’s the matter ? . . Did you hurt 
 yourself? . . Have a drink, that*, cure you.” 
 But no one appeared nor responded. 
 Quite surprised, Joachim Crete turned 
 
 256 
 
The Loup-Garou 
 
 around, laying his glass on the table, and 
 stood terrified, with eyes fearfully fixed and 
 his hair standing on end. 
 
 It wasn’t at all Hubert Sauvageau who 
 was facing him ; it was a huge black dog, 
 as tall as a man, with formidable teeth, 
 sitting on his haunches, and who stared at 
 him with eyes blazing like embers. 
 
 Without being a hero, the miller was not 
 precisely a coward : after his first impression 
 of terror, he plucked up courage and called 
 out to Hubert. 
 
 “ Who has let this dog in ? ” 
 
 No answer. 
 
 “ Hubert ! ” he insisted, stammering with 
 a thick voice ; “ where does this dog come 
 from ? ” 
 
 Not a word. 
 
 “ Why, that’s rather cool. . . Get out of 
 this, you ! ” 
 
 The big dog gave a growl that sounded 
 like a bit of laughter, but didn’t stir a foot. 
 
 And Hubert was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 Joachim was anything but merry, as you 
 may reckon. He couldn’t understand what 
 
 357 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 was going on ; and as a dreadful fright was 
 creeping over him again, he thought of mak- 
 ing for the door. But the terrible dog had 
 only to turn his head with his blazing eyes 
 to bar the way. Seeing this, the poor man 
 crawled backwards to take refuge between 
 the table and the bed, without losing sight 
 of the monster. 
 
 “ And he fell on his knees." 
 
 The latter advanced a few steps with 
 another hellish growl. 
 
 “ Hubert ! ” cried out the unfortunate man 
 in a tone of horrible anguish. 
 
 The dog kept moving towards him, erect 
 
 258 
 
The Loup-Garou 
 
 on his legs, growling more and more, and 
 keeping his burning eyes fastened on the 
 trembling man. 
 
 “ Help ! help ! . . ” howled Joachim CrSte, 
 crazy with fear, and backing himself up to 
 the wall. 
 
 None answered his call, but at that very 
 moment the church bell pealing for the Ele- 
 vation was heard. 
 
 Then a thought of repentance passed 
 through the brains of the wretched man. 
 
 “It is a loup-garou !” cried he; “my God, 
 forgive me ! ” 
 
 And he fell on his knees. 
 
 At the same time the infernal beast darted 
 upon him. 
 
 Fortunately the poor miller, while kneeling 
 down, had felt something on the wall that 
 caught him by the clothes. 
 
 It was a reaping-hook. 
 
 The man instinctively seized the weapon 
 and hit the brute right on the head. 
 
 It was the matter of one instant. Every- 
 thing disappeared in the dark. In the struggle, 
 short as it had been, the table had been over- 
 
 259 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 turned, and the glasses, bottles and candle 
 were scattered on the floor. 
 
 As to Joachim Crete, he had fainted away. 
 When he returned to his senses, somebody 
 was throwing cold water in his face, and a 
 well-known voice was saying : 
 
 “ What has been the matter with you, 
 monsieur Joachim?” 
 
 “ Is that you, Hubert ? ” 
 
 “ As you see.” 
 
 “ Where is he ? ” 
 
 “ Whom do you mean ? ” 
 
 “ The dog.” 
 
 “Which dog?” 
 
 “ The loup-garouP 
 “ What ? ” 
 
 “ The loup-garou I have released with my 
 reaping-hook.” 
 
 “ Good Heavens / have you gone mad, 
 Monsieur J oachim ? ” 
 
 “ I have not dreamt that surely. . . And 
 yourself, where are you from ? 
 
 “ From the mill.’' 
 
 “ I see it is running now, the mill. . . ” 
 “You can hear it.” 
 
 260 
 
The Loup-Garou 
 
 “ Go and stop it right off ; it must not 
 work on Christmas.” 
 
 “ Why, Christmas is passed, it was yester- 
 day.” 
 
 “How is that?” 
 
 “You have been senseless for two days, 
 that’s all.” 
 
 “ Is it possible ? . . But what is ^he 
 matter with your ear? . . Blood!” 
 
 “ That’s nothing.” 
 
 “How did you get that? Speak out!” 
 
 “ Don’t you remember I had a fall in the 
 mill on Christmas Eve ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Well, I cut my ear on the edge of a 
 pail.” 
 
 Joachim Crete, my friends, sat up on his 
 bed, haggard and shaken by a shiver of hor- 
 ror. . . 
 
 “Ah ! damnable wretch ! ” cried he ; “ it 
 was you ! . . ” 
 
 And the poor fellow fell back on his 
 pillow, never to recover his wits again. 
 
 He died ten years later in a lunatic 
 asylum. 
 
Christmas in French Canada 
 
 As to the mill, it was torn down and 
 carried away in the spring, at the breaking 
 up of the ice. 
 
 • »•••••• 
 
 “ Cesaire ! ” whispered a sweet voice in the 
 ear of the young man whose incredulity had 
 provoked old Catherine’s story ; “ a red head 
 of corn ! ” 
 
 “ Is that so ? , . Give ! ” said he stealthily. 
 
 And rising on his feet ; 
 
 “ My friends,” added he with a joyful ex- 
 clamation, “ a red head of corn ! . . I claim 
 my rights ! ” * 
 
 And, to the applause of all, the young 
 man bowed to his right, and impressed a 
 loving kiss on the blushing cheek of his fair 
 neighbor. 
 
 “And so help me God,” said he, “that’s 
 all the sorcery I believe in ! ” 
 
 * In an ipluchette de bli-d' Inde, whoever finds a red head of 
 corn has a right to kiss the young girl of his choice. 
 
 «e» 
 
 262