“Dat Gran’ Point’,” resumed the black; “’tain’t no point on de riveh, you know, like dat Bell’ Point, w’at you see yondeh ’twixt dem ah batture willows whah de sun all spread out on the wateh; no, seh. ’Tis jis lil place back in de swamp, raise’ ’bout five, six feet ’bove de wateh. Yes, seh; ’bout t’ree mile’ long, ’alf mile wide. Don’t nobody but Cajun’[1] live back dah. Seem droll you goin’ yondeh.”
“’Tis the reason I go,” said the other, without looking up.
“Yes, seh.”—A short silence.—“Dass nigh fifty year’, now, dat place done been settle’. Ole ’Mian Roussel he was gret hunter. He know dat place. He see ’tis rich groun’. One day he come dare, cut some tree’, buil’ house, plant lil tobahcah. Nex’ year come ole man Le Blanc; den Poché, den St. Pierre, den Martin,—all Cajun’. Oh! dass mo’n fifty year’ ’go. Dey all comes from dis yeh riveh coast; ’caze de rich Creole’, dey buy ’em out. Yes, seh, dat use’ be de Côte Acadien’, right yeh whar yo’ feet stan’in’ on. C’est la côte Acadien’, just ici, oui.” The trudging stranger waived away the right of translation. He had some reason for preferring English. But his manner was very gentle, and in a moment the negro began again.
“Gret place, dat Gran’ Point’. Yes, seh; fo’ tobahcah. Dey make de bes’ Périque tobahcah in de worl’. Yes, seh, right yond’ at Gran’ Point’; an’ de bes’ Périque w’at come from Gran’ Point’, dass de Périque of Octave Roussel, w’at dey use call ’im Chat-oué;[2] but he git tired dat name, and now he got lil boy ’bout twenny-five year’ ole, an’ dey call de ole man Catou, an’ call his lil boy Chat-oué. Dey fine dat wuck mo’ betteh. Yes, seh. An’ he got bruddeh name’ ’Mian Roussel. But dat not de ole, ole ’Mian—like dey say de ole he one. ’Caze, you know, he done peg out. Oh, yes, he peg out in de du’in’ o’ de waugh.[3] But he lef’ heap-sight chillen; you know, he got a year’ staht o’ all de res’, you know. Yes, seh. Dey got ’bout hund’ed fifty peop’ yond’ by Gran’ Point’, and sim like dey mos’ all name Roussel. Sim dat way to me. An’ ev’y las’ one got a lil fahm so lil you can’t plow her; got dig her up wid a spade. Yes, seh, same like you diggin’ grave; yes, seh.”
The gentle stranger interrupted, still without lifting his eyes from the path. “’Tis better narrowness of land than of virtue.” The negro responded eagerly:
“Oh, dey good sawt o’ peop’, yes. Dey deals fair an’ dey deals square. Dey keeps de peace. Dass ’caze dey mos’ly don’t let whisky git on deir blin’ side, you know. Dey does love to dance, and dey marries mawnstus young; but dey not like some niggehs: dey stays married. An’ modess? Dey dess so modess dey shy! Yes, seh, dey de shyes’, easy-goin’es’, modesses’, most p’esumin’ peop’ in de whole worl’! I don’t see fo’ why folks talk ’gin dem Cajun’; on’y dey a lil bit slow.”
The traveller on the levee’s top suddenly stood still, a soft glow on his cheek, a distension in his blue eyes. “My friend, what was it, the first American industry? Was it not the Newfoundland fisheries? Who inaugu’ate them, if not the fishermen of Normandy and Bretagne? And since how long? Nearly fo’ hundred years!”
“Dass so, boss,” exclaimed the negro with the promptitude of an eye-witness; but the stranger continued:—
“The ancestors of the Acadian’—they are the fathers of the codfish!” He resumed his walk.
“Dass so, seh; dass true. Yes, seh, you’ talkin’ mighty true; dey a pow’ful ancestrified peop’, dem Cajun’; dass w’at make dey so shy, you know. An’ dey mighty good han’ in de sugah-house. Dey des watchin’, now, w’en dat sugah-cane git ready fo’ biggin to grind; so soon dey see dat, dey des come a-lopin’ in here to Mistoo Wallis’ sugah-house here at Belle Alliance, an’ likewise to Marse Louis Le Bourgeois yond’ at Belmont. You see! de fust t’ing dey gwine ass you when you come at Gran’ Point’—‘Is Mistoo Wallis biggin to grind?’ Well, seh, like I tell you, yeh de sugah-house, an’ dah de road. Dat road fetch you at Gran’ Point’.”