“Tra la la, la la lere,
Tra la lere, de la ri ra.”
No doubt it was the mocking-bird’s song which rang from the trees which brought to the mind of Clemence this song, which had been a favourite of theirs at home, and which told so musically of the nightingale’s song, of the red of the rose, and of the love of “Pierre.”
In five minutes the scene seemed to change from gloom to gaiety. Annette was cooing, Marie kept time to the gay little tune with the great fan which seldom left her hand, while the little cat in her efforts to gain her freedom tipped over her basket and set them all laughing.
The Bayou Gentilly, up which they were travelling in the pirogues, which were hardly more than dug-out canoes, was bordered at intervals on either side by the plantations of settlers who had owned the land for fifty years and over in some cases.
“Why, Pierre, how is this?” said Clemence, breaking off her song; “first the wilderness, then, see, the fields are planted!”
“These plantations are worked by the order of the King,” answered Pierre, “and the little shrubs with berries which have such fresh green leaves are the myrtle-wax bushes, from which wax for candles is made. We ourselves will have our plantation bordering on the Bayou set with such bushes as these; it is so directed.”
“But I thought indigo and sugar-cane were what we were to plant. I know that I could not bring half the things I wished, lest there should not be room for the indigo seeds and the little canes.”
Pierre smiled and said,—
“Truly a house, dear girl, is the first thing to be considered, and that may best be obtained by a good crop of indigo seed, since the planters hereabouts must needs get their seed from France, unless some are willing to raise seed only.”