Little Jeanne Duval loved the old wharf because it was all so beautiful. She liked the soft blackness of the cindery soil that covered the most sheltered portions of the worn-out dock. She liked the little sloping grass-grown banks that had formed at the inner sides of the dock, where it touched the Cinder Pond. She liked to lie flat, near the steep, straight outer edge of the dock, to look into the green, mysterious depths below. Anything might be down there, in that deep, deep water.
The Cinder Pond was different. It was shallow. The water was warmer than that in the lake and very much quieter. There were small fish in it and a great many minnows. And in one sunny corner there were pollywogs and lively crawfish. Also bloodsuckers that were not so pleasant and a great many interesting water-bugs.
Then there were flowers. Wherever there was a handful of soil, seeds had sprouted. Each spring brought new treasures to the old dock; each year the soil crept further lakeward; though the planking was still visible at the Duval corner of the wharf.
The flowers near the shore were wonderful. Pink and white clover, with roses, bluebells, ox-eyed daisies, black-eyed Susans, wild forgetmenots, violets. And sometimes, seeds from the distant gardens on the high bluff back of the lake were carried down by the north wind; for, one summer, she had found a great, scarlet poppy; another time a sturdy flame-colored marigold.
What she liked best, perhaps, was a picture that was visible from a certain point on Lake Street. That portion of the so-called street, for as far as the eye could reach, was road—a poor road at that. There were no houses; and the road was seldom used. From it, however, one saw the tall old smoke-stack, outlined against the sky, the long, low dock with its fringe of green shrubbery reflected in the quiet waters of the Cinder Pond; and beyond, the big lake, now blue, now green, or perhaps beaten to a froth by storm. Jeanne loved that lake.
Seen from that distance, even the rambling shack that her father had built was beautiful, because its sagging, irregular roof made it picturesque. Jeanne couldn't have told you why this quiet spot was beautiful, but that was the reason.
On the portion of the dock that ran eastward from the Duval house, there were a number of the big reels on which fishermen wind their nets. These, seen from the proper angle, made another picture. They were used by her father, Barney Turcott, and Captain Blossom. Barney and "Old Captain," as everybody called Captain Blossom, were her father's partners in the fishing business. Two of them went out daily to the nets, anchored several miles below the town of Bancroft. The third partner stayed on or near the wharf to sell fish to the chance customers who came (rather rarely indeed) on foot; in a creaking, leisurely wagon; or perhaps in a small boat from one of the big steamers docked across the Bay.
Jeanne's playfellows were her half-brothers Michael, aged eight, Sammy, aged five, and Patsy, who was not quite two. Also her half-sister Annie, whose years were three and a half. Jeanne and her father were French, her stepgrandmother said. Her stepmother, Mollie, and all her children were mostly Irish.
"But," said Jeanne, a wise little person for her years, "I love those children just as much as if we were all one kind."