I want to hear what they have to say
for themselves. And in listening for that testimony certain little
remembrances come to me--not an argument--only a few sketches on
the wall. Here they are. Take them for what they are worth.
I
LA GRANDE DECHARGE
September, 1894
In one of the long stillwaters of the mighty stream that rushes
from _Lac Saint Jean_ to make the Saguenay--below the _Ile
Maligne_ and above the cataract of Chicoutimi--two birch-bark
canoes are floating quietly, descending with rhythmic strokes of
the paddle, through the luminous northern twilight.
The chief guide, Jean Morel, is a _coureur de bois_ of the old
type--broad-shouldered, red-bearded, a fearless canoeman, a good
hunter and fisherman--simple of speech and deep of heart: a good
man to trust in the rapids.
"Tell me, Jean," I ask in the comfortable leisure of our voyage
which conduces to pipe-smoking and conversation, "tell me, are you
a Frenchman or an Englishman?"
"Not the one, nor the other," answers Jean in his old-fashioned
_patois._ "M'sieu' knows I am French-Canadian.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145