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Updated: June 14, 2025
Every Wednesday and Saturday Andrew Jackson Jefferson, whose name was as queer a combination as himself, for he seemed to be about half horse, so wonderful was his understanding of those animals, and so more than wonderful theirs of him, took his "yo'ng sem'nary ladies a-gallopin' th'oo de windin's ob de kentry roads," proud as a Drum Major of his charges.
"Bishop Lajeunesse no long-chin religieux. Bishop say let yo'ng folks have a good time. Laugh and mak' fun wherever he go. He is a man!" Early as they were they no sooner finished breakfast than they heard a shrill hail from down river. Every soul about the place excepting Sam dropped what he was about and scampered down to the water's edge.
Without any preamble she said simply: "My fat'er a white man." Musq'oosis betrayed no surprise. "I know that," he replied. "My mot'er's fat'er, he white man too," she went on. He nodded. "Why you never tell me?" she asked, frowning slightly. He spread out his palms. "What's the use? You want to go. Got no place to go. Too much yo'ng to go. I t'ink you feel bad if I tell." She shook her head.
All tam so busy, got no tam t'ink wit' his head inside. So w'en he get old his son put him down. He is poor then. But a weak man he got notin' to do but look lak eagle at ev'ryt'ing and remember what he see. So w'en he is old he rich inside. W'en a man get old bad turn to good. Me, w'en I was yo'ng I sore for cause no woman want me.
"I don't think anything about it," he answered with an angry flash. "I not know what to tell them," said Bela. It had a faint theatrical ring, which might have suggested to a discriminating ear that she was not being altogether candid. Sam obstinately closed his mouth. "Which you lak best?" she asked presently, "the big one, the black one, the red one, yo'ng one?"
"Gone?" demanded Drennen. "Where? When?" "Where? Who knows? When?" He shrugged. "Two, t'ree, four hours, peutêtre six." "Who was with her?" "Ho," cackled the old man so that Drennen's hands itched to be at the withered throat, "where she go, there are men to follow! Me, when I am yo'ng, before Mamma Jeanne make me happy, I . . ." "Damn you and your Mamma Jeanne!" cried Drennen.
Sacré nom de dieu," and he rubbed his hands in the keenness of his anticipation, "he play like me when I am yo'ng." Drennen's entrance into the game, informal as it had been, elicited no comment from the other players. He had made his little stack of silver in front of him, coins of the States. There was other American money staked, jingling fraternally against pieces struck in the Canadian mint.
But you, you yo'ng men of the new generation, you are gentlemen of the idleness; you are aristocrats, with polish an' with culture. An' yet you throw your money away yes, you throw it to poor Europe as if to a beggar!" "No, no," he protested with an indulgent laugh which confessed that the truth was really "Yes, yes." "Your smile betray' you!" she cried triumphantly.
His hairy old breast showed through the night-shirt, which gaped apart; the stump of his left arm lay upon the book to keep it open. "Ah, my tear yo'ng friendt! Passil! Marge! Iss it you?" he called out, joyously, the next moment. "Why, are you sick, Lindau?" March anxiously scanned his face in taking his hand. Lindau laughed. "No; I'm all righdt. Only a lidtle lazy, and a lidtle eggonomigal.
All foolishness! Yo'ng people lak babies. Throw down their food. Bam-by got cry for it." Musq'oosis drew his hands together and tried to place the woman's hand that he held in the man's. Both resisted, and he had not strength enough. "Well good-bye," he sighed. Instantly Sam took Bela's hand, and hers crept into his as if at home there. The old man smiled faintly.
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