The pleasures of Bic are not exhausted by the recounting of its water-joys, air, scenery and social life. The walks and drives are a grand feature of summer existence, and moreover they are full of variety. How delightful to take a river drive in either direction. Possibly a walk is preferred, and, with a swinging step adapted to a six or seven mile excursion, a start is made in the direction of the bridge over the South-West River. Passing up the long main street, the varied character of the buildings is noticeable; and the quaint and foreign appearance causes the walk to be arrested at many a spot. Towering woodland heights on the left, beautiful islands on the right and haze-capped sugar-loaf mountains before, it is not long before street merges into country lane. Soon are passed the clustering cottages and gardens, and neat-appearing farms are at hand. Here where the Intercolonial Railway is high up on an observation terrace cut in the side of the mountain, the country road leads down hill, and, with many a pleasurable incident on the further way, and an occasional English-French chat with the habitants, the bridge is reached.
But dark clouds begin to build up moist tire-laden pyramids, and low rumblings of distant thunder are beginning to be heard. A St. Lawrence thunderstorm in this mountainous locality is a thunderstorm, and when it rains, it rains. Right-about-face—Quick, March! and off we go. A few miles are covered, but the storm is imminent. Several cartiers pass uttering their monotonous and plaintive cry, “Marche donc”—a sort of querulous question, ‘why don’t you go on?’ addressed to their patient horses. You decline the oft-repeated proffer of a ride—and a wetting—and execute a double-quick run for the shelter of a friendly cottage. Your energetic knock is quickly answered by a young girl of seventeen summers who has in her engaging face all the sweet characteristics of the daughters of France.
“May I shelter here until the storm has passed,” you ask, stepping in. “Pardon, Monsieur?” comes the reply, as the door is hastily closed against the pelting rain.
Your linguistic powers are varied, yet limited; having been acquired by brief residences in four or five different countries. You manage to remark, “Un jour de pluie,” and as the young girl smiles indulgently over this very obvious fact, while rain dashes against the window,—lightning flashing and thunder rolling—you manage to explain “un abri.” “Avec plaisir, Monsieur,” is the reply in liquid and sweet intonation.
Removing your rain-coat you gratefully repose in the solid arm-chair, and examine with keen interest all the fittings, ornaments and family souvenirs of what you plainly see is an old-time French interior. Your amiable hostess has gone for a moment, but soon reappears, followed by father, mother, grandfather, brother and sister. You rise, bow politely, and shake hands all round, not forgetting your ‘good angel of the storm,’ whose ingenuous eyes reflect the pleasure of having a visitor from the outer world. “C’est un grand plaisir,” you remark; and then indicating her, you add, “Ma bonne ange de l’orage.”
At this all laugh heartily, and none more so than ‘la bonne ange’ herself. “I hev bin in de State,” the oldest, a son, remarks, as all the family smile proudly over his knowledge of English. The elder daughter now invites you to sit near her on the settee while she leafs over the album of family portraits for your entertainment. You are immediately surrounded by the others; all leaning over, pointing out the portraits and relating choice bits of family history. Everyone talks at once, and your frail linguistic bark founders in the deep sea of voluble conversation.
And now a blinding flash of lightning is followed immediately by a tremendous crash of thunder. The house is shaken by the concussion. ‘La Bonne Ange’ quickly runs to the old-fashioned cupboard in the corner, takes out a bottle and sprinkles l’eau benite over the door lintel and window frame. Her sister having run out of the room after the alarming thunder-peal, ‘La Bonne Ange’ shares your settee and explains that the little ceremony she has just performed is to keep lightning out of the room. She goes out and brings back a French-English conversation lexicon. She turns to one of the sentences arranged in parallel columns, speaks the French and asks you to pronounce the English. This done, you exchange; she speaks the English and you speak the French—each correcting the pronunciation of the other until both are right. The others look on eagerly, and smile encouragement over your progress. Every time you speak without the necessity for correction, all cry out delightedly, “Oui, Oui, Monsieur.”
At last ‘La Bonne Ange’ closes the book, and makes you understand that without looking at it you are to address her in French.
The thunder has ceased, the clouds have passed, and the returning light illumines the room and the kindly faces about you. A golden sunbeam casts an aureole around the head of ‘La Bonne Ange,’ and turning to her you say, “Vous etes tres jolie, mademoiselle!” A peal of happy laughter from the family greets your remark, followed by a clapping of hands; and as she looks down demurely, ‘La Bonne Ange’ replies, “Vous parlez français tres bien, Monsieur;” at which we all laugh more heartily than before.