Volume I Part 13 (1/2)

An' I'm not feelin' very surprise den, w'en de crowd holler out, ”Encore,”

For mak' all dem feller commencin' an' try leetle piece some more, 'Twas better wan' too, I be t'inkin', but slow lak you're goin' to die, All de sam', n.o.boddy say not'ing, dat mean dey was satisfy.

Affer dat come de Grande piano, lak we got on Chambly Hotel, She's nice lookin' girl was play dat, so of course she's go off purty well, Den feller he's ronne out an' sing some, it's all about very fine moon, Dat s.h.i.+ne on Ca.n.a.l, ev'ry night too, I'm sorry I don't know de tune.

Nex' t'ing I commence get excite, me, for I don't see no great Ma-dam yet, Too bad I was los all dat monee, an' too late for de raffle tiquette!

W'en jus' as I feel very sorry, for come all de way from Chambly, Jeremie he was w'isper, ”Tiens, tiens, prenez garde, she's comin' Ma-dam All-ba-nee!”

Ev'ryboddy seem glad w'en dey see her, come walkin' right down de platform, An' way dey mak' noise on de han' den, w'y! it's jus' lak de beeg tonder storm!

I'll never see not'ing lak dat, me, no matter I travel de worl', An' Ma-dam, you t'ink it was scare her? Non, she laugh lak de Chambly girl!

Dere was young feller comin' behin' her, walk nice, comme un Cavalier, An' before All-ba-nee she is ready an' piano get startin' for play, De feller commence wit' hees singin', more stronger dan all de res', I t'ink he's got very bad manner, know not'ing at all politesse.

Ma-dam, I s'pose she get mad den, an' before anyboddy can spik, She settle right down for mak' sing too, an' purty soon ketch heem up quick, Den she's kip it on gainin' an' gainin', till de song it is tout finis, An' w'en she is beatin' dat feller, Bagos.h.!.+ I am proud Chambly!

I'm not very sorry at all, me, w'en de feller was ronnin' away, An' man he's come out wit' de piccolo, an' start heem right off for play, For it's kin' de musique I be fancy, Jeremie he is lak it also, An' wan de bes' t'ing on dat ev'ning is man wit' de piccolo!

Den mebbe ten minute is pa.s.sin', Ma-dam she is comin' encore, Dis tam all alone on de platform, dat feller don't show up no more, An' w'en she start off on de singin' Jeremie say, ”Antoine, dat's Francais,”

Dis give us more pleasure, I tole you, 'cos w'y? We're de pure Canayen!

Dat song I will never forget me, 't was song of de leetle bird, W'en he's fly from it's nes' on de tree top, 'fore res' of de worl' get stirred, Ma-dam she was tole us about it, den start off so quiet an' low, An' sing lak de bird on de morning, de poor leetle small oiseau.

I 'member wan tam I be sleepin' jus' onder some beeg pine tree An song of de robin wak' me, but robin he don't see me, Dere's not'ing for scarin' dat bird dere, he's feel all alone on de worl', Wall! Ma-dam she mus' lissen lak dat too, w'en she was de Chambly girl!

Cos how could she sing dat nice chanson, de sam' as de bird I was hear, Till I see it de maple an' pine tree an' Richelieu ronnin' near, Again I'm de leetle feller, lak young colt upon de spring Dat's jus' on de way I was feel, me, w'en Ma-dam All-ba-nee is sing!

An' affer de song it is finish, an' crowd is mak' noise wit' its han', I s'pose dey be t'inkin' I'm crazy, dat mebbe I don't onderstan', Cos I'm set on de chair very quiet, mese'f an' poor Jeremie, An' I see dat hees eye it was cry too, jus' sam' way it go wit' me.

Dere's rosebush outside on our garden, ev'ry spring it has got new nes', But only wan bluebird is buil' dere, I know her from all de res', An' no matter de far she be flyin' away on de winter tam, Back to her own leetle rosebush she's comin' dere jus' de sam'.

We're not de beeg place on our Canton, mebbe cole on de winter, too, But de heart's ”Canayen” on our body an' dat's warm enough for true!

An' w'en All-ba-nee was got lonesome for travel all roun' de worl'

I hope she'll come home, lak de bluebird, an' again be de Chambly girl!

[Footnote 1: From ”The Habitant and Other French Canadian Poems,” by William Henry Drummond. Copyright 1897 by G.P. Putnam's Sons.]

COLONEL STERETT'S PANTHER HUNT

BY ALFRED HENRY LEWIS

”Panthers, what we-all calls 'mountain lions,'” observed the Old Cattleman, wearing meanwhile the sapient air of him who feels equipped of his subject, ”is plenty furtive, not to say mighty sedyoolous to skulk. That's why a gent don't meet up with more of 'em while pirootin'

about in the hills. Them cats hears him, or they sees him, an' him still ignorant tharof; an' with that they bashfully withdraws. Which it's to be urged in favor of mountain lions that they never forces themse'fs on no gent; they're sh.o.r.e considerate, that a-way, an' speshul of themse'fs. If one's ever hurt, you can bet it won't be a accident.

However, it ain't for me to go 'round impugnin' the motives of no mountain lion; partic'lar when the entire tribe is strangers to me complete. But still a love of trooth compels me to concede that if mountain lions ain't cowardly, they're sh.o.r.e cautious a lot. Cattle an'

calves they pa.s.ses up as too bellicose, an' none of 'em ever faces any anamile more warlike than a baby colt or mebby a half-grown deer. I'm ridin' along the Caliente once when I hears a cras.h.i.+n' in the bushes on the bluff above--two hundred foot high, she is, an' as sheer as the walls of this yere tavern. As I lifts my eyes, a fear-frenzied mare an'

colt comes chargin' up an' projects themse'fs over the precipice an'

lands in the valley below. They're dead as Joolius Caesar when I rides onto 'em, while a brace of mountain lions is skirtin' up an' down the aige of the bluff they leaps from, mewin' an' las.h.i.+n' their long tails in hot enthoosiasm. Sh.o.r.e, the cats has been chasin' the mare an' foal, an' they locoes 'em to that extent they don't know where they're headin'

an' makes the death jump I relates. I bangs away with my six-shooter, but beyond givin' the mountain lions a convulsive start I can't say I does any execootion. They turns an' goes streakin' it through the pine woods like a drunkard to a barn raisin'.