To
MY MOTHER
EMMA WETMORE BLISS ROBERTS
Contents
| Chapter | Page | |
|---|---|---|
| I. | Paul Grande’s Home-coming to Grand Pré | [1] |
| II. | Grûl’s Warning | [11] |
| III. | Charms and Counter-charms | [15] |
| IV. | “Habet!” | [23] |
| V. | The Black Abbé Defers | [31] |
| VI. | A New England Englishman | [36] |
| VII. | Guard! | [43] |
| VIII. | The Moon in the Apple-bough | [50] |
| IX. | In Sleep a King; but Waking, no such Matter | [58] |
| X. | A Grand Pré Morning | [66] |
| XI. | Father Fafard | [77] |
| XII. | Le Fûret at the Ferry | [87] |
| XIII. | Unwilling to be Wise | [94] |
| XIV. | Love Me, Love My Dog | [100] |
| XV. | Ashes as it were Bread | [105] |
| XVI. | The Way of a Maid | [112] |
| XVII. | Memory is a Child | [117] |
| XVIII. | For a Little Summer’s Sleep | [125] |
| XIX. | The Borderland of Life | [135] |
| XX. | But Mad Nor-nor-west | [142] |
| XXI. | Beauséjour, and After | [149] |
| XXII. | Grûl’s Case | [156] |
| XXIII. | At Gaspereau Lower Ford | [161] |
| XXIV. | “If you love me, leave me” | [168] |
| XXV. | Over Gaspereau Ridge | [177] |
| XXVI. | The Chapel Prison | [182] |
| XXVII. | Dead Days and Withered Dreams | [191] |
| XXVIII. | The Ships of her Exile | [200] |
| XXIX. | The Hour of her Desolation | [208] |
| XXX. | A Woman’s Privilege | [218] |
| XXXI. | Young Will and Old Wisdom | [229] |
| XXXII. | Aboard the “Good Hope” | [238] |
| XXXIII. | The Divine Right of Queens | [246] |
| XXXIV. | The Soul’s Supremer Sense | [254] |
| XXXV. | The Court in the Cabin | [260] |
| XXXVI. | Sword and Silk | [268] |
| XXXVII. | Fire in Ice | [279] |
| XXXVIII. | Of Long Felicity Brief Word | [285] |
A Sister to Evangeline
Chapter I
Paul Grande’s Home-coming to Grand Pré
“Revenant à la Belle Acadie”—the words sang themselves over and over in my brain, but I could get no further than that one line, try as I might. I felt that it was the beginning of a song which, if only I could imprison it in my rhyme, would stick in the hearts of our men of Acadie, and live upon their lips, and be sung at every camp and hearth fire, as “À la Claire Fontaine” is sung by the voyageurs of the St. Lawrence. At last I perceived, however, that the poem was living itself out at that moment in my heart, and did not then need the half-futile expression that words at best can give. But I did put it into words at a later day, when at last I found myself able to set it apart and view it with clear eyes; and you shall judge, maybe, when I come to put my verses into print, whether I succeeded in making the words rhyme fairly and the volatile syllables march at measured pace. The art of verse has never been much practised among us Acadians, and it is a matter of some pride to me that I, a busy soldier, now here at Grand Pré and anon at Mackinaw or Natchez, taking in my hand my life more often than a pen, should have mastered even the rudiments of an art so lofty and exacting.
So, for awhile, “Home again to Acadie the Fair” was all that I could say.