A Little Girl in Old St. Louis

by Amanda M. Douglas

“And you are tired, little one. You must go to bed.”

It was strange to get so tired. She had been tired many times on the long journey from Canada, but not like this. She was very glad she had not died, however, though she had no very clear idea about death, except that it meant going to another world. Uncle Gaspard was here, and that was one reason why she wanted to stay.

Presently she began to go about and take pleasure in having the children come in and tell her about their sports. The life was so simple, the main thing seemed to be the good times. No one troubled about education and there were no “higher branches” to vex one’s soul. There was much less dissipation here than in New Orleans or even Detroit, where people from other towns were continually mingling.

One day Uncle Gaspard took her out on his sledge. She had never dreamed of anything so splendid. Great fields of snowy white, as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with a cluster of wigwam poles and brown skins stretched on the outside for warmth. A little blue-gray smoke curled lazily upward, and then the bluest sky over it all. The air was exhilarating and brought a color to her pale cheeks, and made her eyes glow like stars.

Then spring came. The white blanket melted away, the evergreens and spruces scented the air with their new growth; the little streams rushed hither and thither as if they were joyfully carolling, birds sang and built everywhere. Children were out for wild flowers, and raced around like deers. Some days the old mound was alive with them, then they were down to Chouteau’s pond. The boys and often some girls went up the river in canoes. There was the old rock of Fort St. Louis with its story of a hundred years agone, of how La Salle had built a fort and planted an Indian colony, that, when its leader had gone, dwindled and went back to its native tribes. How there had been a fierce quarrel between the Illinois and the Outgamies, and the Illinois had fled to the top of the rock and stayed there until starvation stared them in the face and French intervention came to their assistance.

Then business opened and Gaspard Denys found his hands full. His wide acquaintance with the hunters and his dealings with the Indians brought him in a great deal of trade. There was a continual loading and unloading of boats, the levee was thronged. Denys had to take in a clerk, and his evenings were devoted to straightening accounts and preparing for the next day, and it seemed to Renée as if he was always busy now, with no time for stories.

Easter brought a gay festival and several weddings. The young voyageurs were warmly welcomed home and there was always a feast or a ball given in their honor. When the houses were too small, they went out and danced on the green. Marriages seemed an especially social affair. The families on both sides made the agreement and were mutually pleased. It was seldom a young couple disregarded the respect universally paid to parents, and though there was much pioneer life there was a kind of elegance and refinement among the women with all their vivacious gayety. The admixture of Spanish blood was no bad element.

One of the young traders had brought home with him a beautiful Indian wife, lawfully wedded by one of the mission priests. These mixed marriages were not in much favor with the French. Now and then a trapper brought in one and stayed a few months, but she nearly always preferred to share his hunting expeditions. Still, there were some comfortably settled, whose families years afterward were very proud of their Indian descent.

François Marchand found an old friend in Gaspard Denys. It does not take a decade to cement a friendship made over camp-fires and days filled with adventures and dangers. They had not met in two years, and the youth, who seemed but a stripling to Gaspard then, was now a fine young fellow, his slim figure filled out, his thin face rounded with certain lines of energy, determination, and good health. His clear blue eyes were resolute and undaunted; his chestnut hair was cropped close, which made him less of an object for an Indian’s scalping knife.

“How the town has grown!” he exclaimed with great earnestness. New St. Louis would have laughed at the idea that twenty or thirty families could add much importance. But there had been a few new houses built, sundry additions made to older ones where families had increased. Colonel Chouteau was beautifying the house and grounds where his lamented chief and dear friend had lived. The government house had been repaired, though the new occupant seemed much more indifferent than his people, and cared very little for the interest of the town in general.