"Un, deux, trois, quatre," he would murmur. In his wake little Oisette would follow, gay little parrot that she was, also repeating after him. "Cinque, six, sept, huit." In this way she had learned to count.
Now, it happened that the tenth melon was a large fine one, and, when Oisette beheld it, she sat right down beside it, put her two little arms around it and murmured: "C'est pour Monsieur, le Curé," which translated into English reads: "This is for the priest." Her father chuckled and said to Louis, her brother, who was weeding hard by, "She is just like her mother, the little one, she always remembers the priest."
Madame Tremblent was diminutive in stature, her two interests in life were her home and her church; she understood the English language as she heard it spoken, but she had never attempted to utter a word in English herself, nor could she read a line of anything but French.
Her husband wore a silk hat and frock coat on Sundays and Holy Days, he attended political meetings and was a keen politician, could address a meeting in either tongue, as can most young Canadian Frenchmen; but Madame apparently took no interest other than to see that her husband's coat was well brushed, his silk hat very glossy indeed.
She consulted her priest when anything worried her, she had so little faith in banks that she always carried her house-keeping money either in her stocking or in her petticoat pockets.
There came a day in early September when quantities of melons were gathered for the market, put in the big farm wagon, and Oisette was allowed to sit by her father on the high seat as they drove to the Bonsecour Market in Montreal. The start was made in the early morning. Oisette sang to herself as they rumbled along.
"Alouette, gentille Alouette, Alouette, Je te plumerai,
Je te plumerai la tête, Je te plumerai la tête,
O Alouette, gentille Alouette, Alouette, Je te plumerai."[1]
The French Canadian is apt to sing when he is very happy, and Oisette was especially happy to-day, for she knew that that tenth melon, or one very like it, had been left in the front vestibule of her home, ready to be sent to the priest's home later in the day.
There is one quality that the French Canadian child has, which is not always to be found in children of every nationality: namely, obedience. One seldom finds a naughty or willful little French boy or girl. They are stolid perhaps and placid, but there is no kicking or screaming.
On this particular September morning, Oisette, when the Bonsecour Market was finally reached, waited patiently for her father, she sat on the high seat now by herself. The team, along with many others, was lined up beside the market. From this perch she could see the beautiful river, the boats coming in and leaving the harbor; she could see the wharves and the loading and unloading of great steamers. It was all very fascinating.