Your affectionate,
Father.
L'Islet, P. Q., September.
Dearly Beloved Home Folks: I have passed the examination and have not been placed in the highest class. That old arithmetic is the cause. Then, I know almost nothing about Latin or French, but I mean to work in earnest.
Mamma, I did not hear you say your uncle was a priest. He has been pastor of the church for thirty years. His hair is white as snow and he always wears a long black robe belted at the waist, with large beads at his side. When walking out, his head is covered with a wide-brimmed hat. I think he looks like the priest in Longfellow's Evangeline. He is very kind to me and says I look exactly as you did when a child.
There are two funerals here each month; every window in the Church is draped in black on these occasions, and all the ornaments on the altar covered with mourning. But, Ma, dear! you should hear the "Chanteurs" that sing at the Mass for the dead. They are four old men with cracked voices. The first time I heard them, it was so awful that I really thought their shouting and squeaking was done purposely to scare away the devil from the corpse.
On Sundays the College boys sing in the choir; if I only could read Latin, I could serve Mass and sing too. Latin is used more than French in saying prayers.
The College grounds slope down to the St. Lawrence, the river is very wide and beautiful, islands dot its surface. We have three large rowboats and a sailing yacht. I am well pleased with everything so far, except the "grub." I miss Hetty's cooking, but I don't starve and am just as fat as ever.