One beautiful June morning, Miss Anstruther, the governess for the Dudley children, decided that she would like to take her pupils on a sight-seeing tour about the city of Montreal, so that their study of local history might become something more than dry facts and dates to be memorized.
When they boarded the "around the mountain" car, they were delighted to find Oisette Mary sitting beside her mother in one of the front seats. Her hair was braided extra tight and her cheeks shone with soap; otherwise she was her placid little self.
The Dudley children were in high spirits and they raced through the car to get seatsnear their chum. "We are to study with our eyes and ears to-day and not from books. Can't you come along with us?"
Finally Madame Tremblent was appealed to. She was on her way for a morning's shopping and she always went to The Bon Marche, kept by The Dupuis Freres, where all the clerks were French, and all the signs read in that language; she was armed with a long list of necessities for her growing family, and as Oisette was sadly in need of a hat she had been commanded to escort her parent thither.
When they reached the Mount Royal station, where every one must transfer east or west, Miss Anstruther, gathering from the look of appeal in the little French girl's eyes that she really would like to join the sight-seers, said to the mother, in her soft French accent, "If Madame would trust her little girl to me, I would select the hat at Goodwears Departmental, as we have a message there to changesome boots for George; and I recently purchased these sailor hats the children are now wearing in their millinery department. She could wear the new hat home and I would have the heavy one sent out on the noon delivery." Oisette was wearing a purple felt hat adorned with a green bow and the day was warm.
Now, Madame Tremblent had herself longed to shop just once in the English part of the city, but the thought of going alone, lest she should not find persons who talked French, had prevented her from doing so. It came to her that if she let Oisette go just once in such good company, why, in a week or so the child could be her mother's guide and she would see for herself all the wonderful things she had heard her neighbors discuss as they walked home from mass each Sunday. So she drew from her petticoat pocket a huge wallet and thrusting a bill in Miss Anstruther's hand burst into a volley of French directed to her offspring tobe attentive, to take care and not to be too late in returning home. Just then the tram for the east end appeared around the curve, and Madame was gone before the surprised governess could make any reply. The children tried to say it all over again—"Soyez exact chez moi," "Prenez garde and bon jour."
"Prenez garde means safety first," explained Miss Anstruther, "so I beg you all to keep with me, for Madame's advice was good, and here comes our car for the west end."
Even the milliner took an interest in little Oisette. "It is so unusual to see the two nationalities shopping together," she said. It did not take long to find a white sailor hat with a gold and white ribbon around the crown, a facsimile of the one Queenie was wearing; and the other errands being done, they set out for the Château de Ramezay in a cab. Their way lead down a steep hill, past The Windsor Hotel and Dominion Square. In this square Oisettefound another statue to admire. This one was the bronze figure of a horse rampant and a figure of a Canadian soldier was holding the animal by its bridle. This statue is known as The Strathcona Horse and was erected in memory of the brave Canadian boys who fell in the South African war. The regiment was called The Strathcona Horse after Lord Strathcona, a very wealthy Scotch Canadian who financed it in 1898.
"Did he race his horses?" asked the little French girl, for horse racing was something she understood. This question made every one in the car laugh, and Oisette was glad when the car turned into "Rue Notre Dame" for here she was more at home and able to tell her little friends more about the narrow streets that lead down to the river; how it was possible in olden days to barricade each end of a narrow thoroughfare from the Indians; finally they passed her beloved Notre Dame church, andabout a half mile further on they came to the Château de Ramezay.
Here they alighted and entered a quaint old gateway, flanked on each side by pyramids of ancient cannon and cannon balls. The door, with its curious knocker, stood open, and, entering, they found themselves in a low ceiled hall.
The history of this building is contemporary with that of the city for the last two centuries and so identified with past historical events that it has been preserved from vandalism of modern improvement and is a genuine relic of the old Régime in New France. Though only a story and a half high, the Norman turrets on either corner of the building add to its dignity, and the plaster walls (plastered over thick stone walls) have a rich yellow color, reminding one of an ancient vellum missal mellowed for centuries in a monkish cell.
In an old document still to be found in thearchives of the St. Sulpician Order, it is recorded that the land on which this château stands was ceded to the Governor of Montreal in the year 1660, about eighteen years after Maisonneuve planted the silken Fleur-de-Lys of France on these shores. Somewhere about 1700 a part of this land was acquired by Claude de Ramezay, when he came from France as a captain in the army with the Viceroy de Tracy, and was for many years Governor of Montreal and held official court in the Council Chamber to the right of the entrance hall.
It was into this room that Miss Anstruther first ushered her party, another long low room now used as a museum of rare and very valuable relics of Canada's past. Everything is labeled by the Antiquarian Society which has this building in its keeping. There were buckles once the property of some gay French chevalier—there were bones of a young Indian maiden discovered when builders on the mountainsidewere excavating for a modern dwelling early in this century, even her wampum belt was there, and from it those versed in Indian lore were able to tell her age, her tribe and the fact that she had become Christianized.
Miss Anstruther instructed Queenie to read in French all the labels aloud and let Oisette translate for them; in this way they got on famously. On the left of the entrance is a salon where there is an old harpsichord, some very interesting old oil portraits of early French governors, and some curious candelabras and other furnishings of an early period. This salon was where Madame de Ramezay entertained her friends from France. How strange must these gayeties have seemed to the dweller of the wigwam as the lights from the château shone out into the night! Once, long, long ago, there was a garden in the rear of the château which reached to the very water's edge;so the sound of the dancing and the laughter must have carried out on the stream. Nowadays this land behind the château is filled with warehouses, and the view of the river gone for all time.
What a contrast to the burden-bearing squaws must have been the gay French women in their powder and patches and hair dressed a la Pompadour as they danced a minuet in their stiff brocades and sparkling jewels, to the sound of a harpsichord.
"Oh, fair young land of La Nouvelle France,With the halo of olden time romance,Back like a half forgotten dreamComes the bygone days of the Old Régime."
Some visitor wrote those words in the visitors' book where every one is asked to inscribe his name.
After the children had absorbed the most important contents of these two rooms they were ushered down a long flight of stairs, ladder-likein their steepness, into the vaults of the château.
These vaults were once the kitchens and laundry of the great château, the fireplaces were so huge the children walked right into them.
They were shown old spinning wheels, old churns, a curious wooden bread-making machine and a mammoth brick oven, where twenty loaves of bread could be baked with one firing. So one gathers that not all who lived in this château were gay idlers after all.
The most interesting vault was one leading out of these kitchens, as it was inky black owing to its having iron shutters, closed over closely barred windows. This, it is said, was where the family, the guests and all the servants had sometimes to hide from the Indians. When news came that some hostile tribe was entering the city all the women and children would be sent "en bas" (below).
After the English had taken Canada from theFrench, this same château was occupied by Sir Jeffry Amherst in his British uniform, and it is possible that from his garden he looked out over the river toward St. Helen's Island and watched the smoke and flame arise from the fire when General de Levis burned his colors rather than let them fall into English hands.
Then again, in 1775, the Chateau de Ramezay was the headquarters of the Continental army of America, and Commissioners met in the council chamber to try and untangle affairs after Montgomery's siege of Quebec had failed.
Benjamin Franklin was one of this commission, and down in the old vaults he set up the first printing-press that Canada ever had, and he issued manifestoes to the people.
"So, you see," said Miss Anstruther, as they finally left this famous spot, "that one building has housed first the French, then the English, and for a time some famous Americans, andnowadays tourists from all nations come to see its contents. It is the grandest relic of an illustrious past, and now, when you take up your history books and find the names of some of these men and women, they will seem more like people to you."
They had a long trolley ride into the west end of the city again, for they wished to reach the Grey Nunnery on the stroke of twelve, noon, for at this hour visitors are admitted to the Chapel.
At last the conductor rang his bell, stopped the car and called out—"Guy—Gee—Guy"—you see, "Guy" is the name of the street on which this convent has a visitors' entrance. The French pronunciation sounds like "Gee," and as the conductor gives both French and English names when he calls the streets it made the children all laugh to hear "Guy—Gee—Guy—Grey Nunnery for you, Madame." This convent, so called from the dress of itscommunity, was founded in 1692, when Louis Fourteenth granted power to establish general hospitals and other institutions for the relief of the sick and aged poor in different parts of the country. In a cemetery under the chapel lie buried the bones of some of the sisters who long ago came from France to found this order in a barren land—they have the heart of the first Mother Superior preserved in alcohol, but this is shown only to a devout few.
A fire destroyed their first building, but the present convent has stood as it is about seventy years and over the main entrance is the inscription—"Mon père et ma mère m'ont abandonne, mais le seigneur m'a recivelli." The governess read this aloud to her charges and then translated it into "My father and my mother may forsake me but the Saviour will receive me."
This building of massive gray limestone occupies a whole block and houses one thousandsouls. There are tiny babes whose parents have deserted them, there are older boys and girls, orphans, there are sick and aged old men and women, there are one hundred nuns and ninety novices to do all the work. All these lives are regulated by the sound of a convent bell.
Exactly on the stroke of twelve noon, the chapel doors open and visitors are admitted. As soon as they are seated the nuns file in two by two, and recite the stations of the Cross in a low monotone. Often some nun with a very beautiful voice sings an anthem. When the service is over a diminutive sister remains behind as a guide to take visitors over the building; one who speaks French or English equally well.
It is all very clean, from the great kitchens with vats of pea soup boiling and the laundries filled with steam in the basement, to the very top of the building where there are play roomsfor the tiny tots. Here some of the older children line up and sing for the visitors and are quite ready to receive coins or candies. There is one room where blind people are taught to read and to do bead work, it is interesting to watch them select the right shade of bead by simply feeling the end of the box which holds them.
In another room there are nimble fingers making wax flowers, weaving lace and doing embroidery.
The drug store was redolent with drugs and a young nun was busy filling prescriptions; she laughed very hard when Queenie exclaimed: "Why, I smell Gregory's mixture!" In a tiny room there was a dental chair, in which was seated a young orphan, and a nun was busy filling this child's teeth. Nobody was idle, even the very old men and women helped with the scrubbing of the floors and woodwork.
It was just one o'clock when they came outagain at the Guy Street entrance, and Miss Anstruther said it was high time they had luncheon. So they went to La Corona Café on that same street, and there, in a delightful out of door garden, they sat at a small table with the lovely blue sky above them and flowers all about them, and a very attentive waiter. It is quite like a Parisian café. During their meal they chatted together about what they had seen, and asked eagerly about what was to follow.
"It is a puzzle to decide," said Miss Anstruther, "whether we had best go up on Mount Royal where from that elevation I could point out to you many historic spots of interest, including St. Helen's Island named after Champlain's wife, who was a French Helen somebody—and Victoria Bridge built when the late King Edward was a boy of eighteen and he came out here on a tour, and stopped to drive the last rivet in this bridge, and the locationof Dollard's Lane, named from a brave young Frenchman who fought the Iroquois—or shall we go out to Lachine by trolley in time to take the boat over the rapids, that will bring us into the docks by supper time and out home a half hour later.
"I vote for whichever will have the most about Indians," said George, "we can see the Victoria Bridge when we travel any day." At this moment a party of French politicians entered the enclosure and Oisette's eyes dilated with amazement, "Mon père!" she exclaimed. Sure enough, it was Monsieur Tremblent, and he, too, was amazed to behold his little girl in a new white sailor hat. Miss Anstruther explained how Oisette happened to be with them, so he took a great interest in their plans, and after consulting with his party found he could put a motor car at Miss Anstruther's disposal; in this they could cover more ground in the city and be taken out to Lachine, then theparty could see the rapids and the car could be brought back to its owner at five o'clock, when he would be returning from the political meeting.
Their plans were soon made, and their first stop was to be on Sherbrooke Street just west of Guy Street, where behind huge gray stone walls, is situated the grand seminary of the Sulpician Order. Entering these grounds, they could see the huge building which houses four hundred or more students, all preparing for the priesthood, but one reason of their visit was to see the two stone towers in the grounds which were built in very early times and remain standing in an excellent state of preservation. One of these old towers was used as a chapel for the Indian mission and the other as a school. A tablet on the chapel tower bears the inscription "Here rest the mortal remains of a Huron Indian baptized by the Reverend Père de Brebeuf. He was, by his piety andby his probity, the example of the Christians, and the admiration of the unbelievers; he died aged one hundred years the 21st of April, 1690."
Miss Anstruther reminded George that he had but recently read in Parkman's history about this same Rev. Père de Brebeuf, who was tortured to death by the Iroquois with every cruelty devisable.
The school held in the other tower had, at one time, a famous native teacher; she was called "the school mistress of the mountains," and died in 1695, when but twenty-eight years old. Above the door of the western wing of the great seminary is the legend in Latin "Hie evangel; bantur Indi," "Here the Indians were evangelized."
Next they rode along Sherbrooke Street, past a beautiful art gallery and some fine residences to the McGill University grounds, which lie at the foot of the mountain slope. This collegewas founded in 1821 and named from its founder the Honorable James McGill. Then, just a little further on, is the Royal Victoria college for women, donated by Lord Strathcone, and a beautiful statue of Queen Victoria ornaments the entrance steps—this statue was designed by the Princess Louise, one of Queen Victoria's own children. Miss Anstruther said she hoped some day her little students would become McGill graduates.
As motors are not allowed on Mount Royal, it was decided that they would go out to Lachine by the lower road, in this way they passed very many interesting places. Near thePlace d'Armesstood the house of Sieur du Luth, from whom the city of Duluth was named, and west of St. Lambert hill was a tiny house once the home of Cadillac, who left the then little French village to proceed westward and found the now beautiful city of Detroit.
In the years which came after, such men asWashington Irving, General Montgomery, Benjamin Franklin, Benedict Arnold, John Jacob Astor all lived for some time in Montreal, and all had something to do with the making of its history. In many places the Antiquarian Society has marked the various sites where these famous men made their homes.
On this lower road to Lachine, and within hearing of the sound of the rapids, stands a very old windmill, said to have been built in 1666 when La Salle came to Montreal,—there are also crumbling remains of a fortified château nearby and there is a well-founded legend that the old chimney attached thereto was built by Samuel de Champlain himself in his trading post of logs. The snowflakes of three hundred winters have fallen into that great fireplace since those stones and mortar were laid.
The Lachine Rapids were first run by a steamer in the summer of 1840 by the side-wheelerOntario—afterward this boat's namewas changed toThe Lord Sydenham—and for very many years an Indian pilot took the wheel and steered the course over treacherous rock and reef. From very early times these rapids had been navigated by Indians in their frail canoes, and they knew where the water was deep enough for a large boat to go.
George Dudley was keen to see the village of Lachine itself and seemed quite worried because everybody was alive and well, as he had but recently read in his history of the Massacre of Lachine, but he had forgotten that it happened in 1689. It was in the summer of that year that the Iroquois descended upon this little hamlet on a very dark night and surrounded every house at midnight, and then with terrible yells and war-whoops destroyed every house and killed every living being.
It was nearly five o'clock when the little party left their borrowed automobile and boarded the steamer to shoot the rapids—theygot right in the bow of the boat and Oisette stood on a chair where she could see the flying spray.
Altogether, it had been a wonderful event in her life, for French Canadian children, as a rule, do not have a whole day's outing, and when at last she was home again and tried to tell her mother about it, the good woman crossed herself to think of the dangers her little girl had come through.
Industryis another trait which our little Quebec cousin has to her credit.
The interior of Oisette's home was filled with objects which go to prove this. For instance, all the bed clothes, with the exception of the sheets, consist of gay patchwork quilts. French Canadian children learn to sew patchwork when they are very young indeed. Oisette learned to put together red and blue and yellow and white cotton cubes, which were made into wonderful squares of patchwork, just as soon as she could hold a needle that some older person threaded for her. She could thread her own needle long before she knew how to tell what hour it was by the clock.
She knew that to have a quilt one must firstmake thirty-six of these squares. In the Tremblent household were not only quilts that had been pieced together by a great grandmother who had resided in Quebec City, but bedspreads made by a grandmother who lived across the river in a little village named Chambly, and many made by her own mother when she was a little girl.
Indeed, on Oisette's own bed was a quilt of marvelous pattern made by an aunt for whom Oisette was named. This aunt had since become a cloistered nun, and was shut in from the gay world and spent her time mostly in prayer!
The pattern was known as "The music of the spheres." It consisted of circular bits of red and yellow cotton, which looked like onions floating in a bright blue sky. Right in the center of the counterpane was a big purple star, the long points of this star were tipped with yellow cotton and reached right to the edge of the bedspread.
This comforter was used for the first time when little Oisette Mary was only thirty-six hours old. She was taken by her father and her aunt to the church to be christened; you know a French Canadian child is always christened within three days after birth, and when the tiny babe was put back in its mother's bed the wonderful quilt was spread over the foot of the bedstead and the proud father declared that the little one opened its eyes and noticed the lovely colors even then.
A few months later, when she was old enough to be put down on the floor, she showed a great fancy for the rag rugs, with their gay stripes. These rugs are calledHabitantcarpets, and are made by the industrious method of sewing together long strips of colored cloth, these strips are rolled into big balls, as large as one's head, and six of these balls, when woven with carpet thread, make a very pretty rug. Most of the convents have looms wherethey will weave these balls for a small sum of money per yard.
There is something very cheering about the interior of a French Canadian domicile. First of all, there is usually much clean paint, either yellow paint like the clearest sunlight or bright blue paint like a summer sky. Then the window panes sparkle with cleanness, and the window-sills are filled with flowering geraniums and fuchsias, the latter plant being a great favorite in the French Canadian home. These flowers are usually growing in tin cans, but the tin is always very bright and shining. Then the wall papers are never dull or dark in color. Often they are either designs of bright flowers or gold stars. The pictures on the walls are always of interest. First and foremost there is always a picture of the Pope. Then a picture of the Christ, and very often indeed one finds a picture of Madame Albani in all her diamonds and tiara as she appearedwhen she sung for Queen Victoria at Windsor Castle.
Albani, indeed, was a little Quebec cousin who became world famous. She was born at Chambly, near Montreal, in 1852, within sound of the roaring rapids of the River Richelieu, and in sight of the old historical fort. She was the oldest daughter of one Joseph Lajeunesse, who was a musician of sorts, playing the piano, the fiddle, the harp and the organ. Indeed, he played the church organ at Chambly for many years, and he taught singing in the Sacred Heart Convent at Back River. When little Emma Lajeunesse was twelve years of age, the family moved to Albany, New York, and she went to a convent school there, where her voice was discovered when she sang in the cathedral. It was the citizens of that city who made up a purse and sent her over to Italy to study music. And so out of gratitude she called herself Madame Albani. But when shebecame famous she returned to Montreal many, many times on concert tours, and was much loved by her own people there, who secured her picture to ornament their homes, and always speak of her as "The lady who sings better than the birds."
Dr. Drummond, who lived in the Province of Quebec, once wrote some delightful verses in the broken English of theHabitantfarmer, which lines describe hearing Madame Albani sing:
"Dat song I will never forget me,'Twas song of de leetle bird,When he's fly from its nes' on de tree top,'Fore rest of de worl' get stirred.Madame she was tole us about it, den start off so quiet an' low,And sing lak de bird on de morning, de poor little small oiseau."
Then the last stanza goes like this—
"We're not de beeg place on our canton, mebbe cole on de winter too,But de heart's 'Canayen' on our body an' dat's warm enough for true!An w'en All-ba-nee was got lonesome for travel all roun' de worl'I hope she'll come home lak de bluebird an' again be de Chambly girl!"
That, you see, is why the photograph of Madame Albani is given a place of honor in our little Quebec cousin's home.
There is one ornament also that is never missing from the French-Canadian interior, no matter how shabby the surroundings. There is always a crucifix, which teaches its lesson of sacrifice and love to all.
These people are a home-abiding race. They travel but little. If they have a fiddle and a pack of cards for amusement, they do not feel the lure of the moving picture theaters. Sometimes, if any of the family get ill, they will make a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Anne de Beaupré. But very many of them never leave their happy homes for even one night.
Oisette was twelve years of age before shemade her first long visit away from home. To be sure, she had been at the convent school for three years, but that was on the Island of Montreal, and one journeyed there by driving. But to go by night boat to Quebec one hundred and sixty miles away, that was traveling.
Just as the city clocks and church bells were sounding their seven o'clock duet, the big night boat for Quebec, known as the steamerRichelieu, swung out into mid-stream. The current of the river St. Lawrence is very rapid just here, opposite the city of Montreal.
On the rear deck Monsieur Tremblent was standing and his little daughter Oisette Mary was with him. The month was June and the weather was very beautiful indeed.
The little traveler gazed with rapture at the receding shores, bathed in a lovely sunset glow. Everything pleased her; she would like to have opened all the stateroom doors and taken a peep inside, but her father explained to herthat this was not allowed, except stateroom number seventeen, for that he had a large key; and presently she could go to bed in the top berth, and watch the panorama of moving shore line from out the port hole. But she wanted to sit up as long as her eyes would stay open and watch the travelers ascend and descend the very grand staircase. Above the mirror, which one always finds on these river boats, just halfway up the staircase, was a full length portrait of Richelieu himself, in his gorgeous robes, and holding a scroll in his hand. Oisette tried hard to remember his name, and wondered if he had been a Pope! She would ask the good sisters at the convent when she had to return to her lessons.
Presently she discovered in the salon, a large glass counter, like in a shop, where all sorts of fancy goods were displayed for sale.
There were Indian baskets, picture post cards, and jewelry and candy. Her father toldher she might buy a present to take to his mother who lived in the city of Quebec; she became so absorbed trying to discover what she could find that her grandmère would like that she never missed her father at all, she stood just where he had left her and gazed and gazed; while he was on the lower deck, having bought a cigar he stopped to chat with a commercial traveler from Ontario, who was much interested to hear about the melon farm; and followed Mr. Tremblent back again up the grand staircase, when he went to find his little girl.
Oisette had just decided upon an Indian basket for her grandmother. This basket was woven in green and pink straw and shaped like a melon. "It will hold her knitting," she explained. "And she will think of you when she sees the melon."
This amused the Ontario man, who shook hands with Oisette and asked her to help himpick out something for his little girl. Finally, after much looking, a pair of red slippers with bead work on the toes was purchased. Then the stranger bought a very tiny straw basket, which contained a thimble; the latter just fitted Oisette's finger, and she was made very happy when he told her she was to keep it.
She made one of her deep curtsies, as the nuns had taught her, and said softly, "Merci bien, Monsieur."
That phrase amused the giver so much that he took out his note book and wrote it down, and he asked her to spell it for him, and kept saying it over and over. "I'll tell my little girl," he said, "that these were your very words!"
Oisette showed her father the thimble and whispered to him, "I shall make him a quilt!" Her father laughed and repeated her saying to the stranger, who declared that the very next time he visited Montreal he would driveout to the melon farm and see how the quilt was coming on.
At last Oisette was ready to go to bed. It was quite late now, but Quebec has a long twilight in summertime, and from out the portholes she could see the little villages along the shore.
There was always a fine big church and a good-sized convent, and clustered about these were such tiny houses.
Finally, she fell asleep and dreamed that the big churches were large hens and the little cottages were chickens cared for by the very big hens on the hill! And sometimes they seemed to be all racing along the river's edge together.
Thebig steamerRichelîeuwas moored at the docks below the historic city of Quebec at seven o'clock the next morning. Tourists were allowed to remain in their staterooms until eight o'clock if they chose and breakfast was furnished on board. But Monsieur Tremblent and Oisette were early risers and were among the first to walk down the gangplank, attend to their luggage and depart for the upper town, where Grandmother Tremblent would have a good breakfast of bacon and eggs ready for her guests.
They did not drive up the steep hills in a calêche, nor did they take the trolley, for Monsieur Tremblent knew of a short cut; he couldreach his mother's home more readily by walking one block in the lower town and then taking an elevator, which runs right up the side of the cliff and deposits its passengers on the Terrace, where the beautiful Château Frontenac stands.
Already Oisette felt as though she were walking in the pages of history: for she knew well the story of Samuel de Champlain, who had founded this city so long ago. How he made friends with the Algonquins and listened to their stories of rivers and lakes and boundless forests, and how with them as allies he led the French in many wars against the Iroquois, the most bloodthirsty of all Indian tribes; how he bore the welfare of his colony upon his heart to the very end, dying upon Christmas Day in 1635. He was buried close beside Fort St. Louis, which is now the site of the beautiful hotel, the Château Frontenac. This hostelry often shelters nowadays ten times the numberof people who made up the population of New France, as Canada was called in the days when it was governed by the brave Champlain.
Think of it! At that date six white children represented young Canada, and Madame de Champlain had scarcely any companions of her own sex, save the three serving women who had come with her from France.
When the elevator deposited Monsieur Tremblent and Oisette Mary at the top of the cliff, a short flight of steps brought them to the Champlain monument, and here they paused to get the wonderful view of the St. Lawrence as it widens to the sea. Here Monsieur Tremblent had a fine opportunity to point out to his little girl many things of interest; on the opposite shore was Levis, and from there one gets a trolley along the river bank to the station where one can see the wonderful new bridge, which has the largest span in the world, and which crosses the river at such a height that thelargest boats from over the ocean can sail beneath it.
The tin roof and spire of a great church rises on that bank also. It is the parish church of St. Romauld; this church contains very lovely mural paintings done by an Old World artist some seventy-five years ago. A wealthy priest spent all the money left by his mother's estate in importing a young artist who had just won a grand prize in Paris, and entertained him as his guest for three years, until the work was done, and his paintings are growing more mellow and beautiful as the years pass. Monsieur Tremblent had, as a small boy, been an acolyte in that very church, and so little Oisette gazed with rapture at the roof shining like a diamond in the morning sunshine.
Goodness knows she was hungry when Madame Tremblent's house, situated on the Grand Alley, was reached; she found that her grandmother, whom she had not seen for severalyears, had grown smaller and thinner and wore a black lace cap on her head, but that her eyes were as bright as ever, and she had such a happy contented smile of welcome for her son and her granddaughter, whom she kissed on both cheeks.
During the morning Oisette unpacked her belongings, and became accustomed to the tall, narrow, stone house, with its long flights of narrow stairs, its tall, narrow windows; a house where one had breakfast in the basement, with windows on the street level, and received one's visitors in a salon upstairs, a very grand room with lofty ceilings and heavy cut glass chandeliers that tinkled when any one walked heavily in the room above.
To go to her bedroom she had to climb another long flight of narrow stairs. But here, again, the view was so wonderful that she forgot to be homesick.
Her grandmother owned a marvelous bigblack cat with yellow eyes that answered to the name of Napoleon, and also a dog, another Carleau by the way, old and feeble now, sleeping most of his time away, but he managed to wag his tail slowly when he heard little Oisette Mary's voice.
In the sitting-room, which was bright with red curtains, flowered walls and much fancy work of colored worsteds, there was a very yellow canary in a very bright clean cage.
This bird had a very shrill little note that made one's ears flutter, and he sang from the time the church bell rang for early mass until nightfall. Sometimes when he became too shrill, Madame would take off her black apron and hang it over the top of the cage and bid the warbler to "marche a couché."
Oisette was very much amused at this camouflage. "It is the daylight saving bill for the pauvre oiseau," she explained to her father.
Monsieur Tremblent had much business toattend to on this trip, but he managed to have Oisette go with him to the Falls of Montmorency, where the river of that name takes a leap of two hundred and fifty feet and joins the St. Lawrence; and to visit the Duke of Kent's house. The Duke of Kent was the father of Queen Victoria of England, and about the house are growing the most lovely old-fashioned flowers. Then, one Sunday afternoon, they took a long ride on the trolley and visited the shrine of St. Anne de Beaupré. Even before they left the tram car, Oisette espied the stone basilica on the top of a very pretty green hill, and as they entered the village the chimes were ringing a processional and a number of cripples thronged through the pillared vestibule. This shrine is world famous and sufferers have come one thousand miles sometimes, to wait, like those of old in Bible days, for the moving of the waters.
When they were finally allowed inside thechurch Oisette gazed in awe at the pillars covered with cast-off crutches, which faithful pilgrims have left behind them as they have gone forth healed. Then she walked slowly down the church aisle with her father and saw the great statue in gold of the good St. Anne herself, and they were shown by the priest a sacred relic. This is a small glass box and in it rests a bone which the faithful believe is the wrist bone of the dead Saint Anne herself. St. Anne was, you see, the mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Little Oisette knelt beside her father, and each was allowed to kiss the glass which held this relic. Doing this made them both feel very happy and good.
The history of this shrine of St. Anne de Beaupré goes back almost to the time of Samuel de Champlain himself. A traditional account of its foundation relates that some Breton mariners being overtaken by a very violent storm on the great St. Lawrence river kneltin their boat and prayed to the good St. Anne, and vowed to her a sanctuary if she would bring them safe to shore.
Their prayers were heard, the wind drove them ashore. So, high on this hill, they raised a little wooden chapel at Petit Cap and while they were engaged in its construction one of the men became the subject of the first miraculous cure. He was badly crippled with rheumatism, but as he worked on the building the pains all left him. Presently other cures followed and the shrine became renowned for miracles. It has been known for two and a half centuries. In that period it has been rebuilt many times over. The shrine that Oisette visited was built in 1886 and since that date has had over one hundred thousand pilgrims come every year to its healing altars.
Now, every one does not get cured. Some who are brought there on beds stay week after week, trying so hard to get help. Others arecured after just one visit, and go away so very grateful and happy.
Oisette and her father went through a museum at the rear of this "L'eglise de la bonne St. Anne," and saw, carefully put away in glass cases, the most wonderful jewelery—watches, rings, bracelets—left behind by visitors who had been helped, and who wanted to leave some expression of their gratitude. Just what good such baubles can do is a puzzling question. But the wanting to give them is what counts, isn't it?
One morning shortly before their return home, Monsieur Tremblent had business at the Château Frontenac, so he told Oisette if she would wait for him on the Terrace, he would afterward take her to see the Citadel, and then they would have a view of the Plains of Abraham.
This Terrace, known as Dufferin Terrace, is a lovely spot. There is a band concert aboutten-thirty every morning, and the people walk up and down and laugh and chat. There are always children playing out in this sunny spot, watched over by nurse maids, or fond mammas. There are always many tourists who come and go from the Château, whose great doors open on this historic spot. So, for a long time, Oisette was contented to sit quietly on a bench and hear the music and watch the crowds. Mingling with the civilians were a good many soldiers and blue jackets, for there were several big ships at anchor in the harbor below.
Oisette didn't care for soldiers. You see, she belonged to a peace-loving people, and to her the greatest honor which could come to her family would be to have a sister a nun, or a brother a priest. But soldiers were men who killed people, and she couldn't understand why the throng on the terrace treated these uniformed visitors with such respect.
Presently a little girl about her own age, whowas dressed all in white, and carrying a white and red parasol, came and sat down on her bench and smiled at Oisette. "Hello! aren't you the melon child?" she said. Oisette almost fell off from the bench in surprise. But she managed to nod her head. "Don't you remember me? I knew you at once. We have often gone out to your place after melons, but they said you were away at a convent. Did you run away from the convent? I am sure I should." As she talked, the newcomer moved along and held her parasol over Oisette's head.
This kindly act warmed our little Quebec cousin's heart. "Oh, no," she said, "I love the convent and the good sisters, but I am here visiting my grandmother."
"We are here," said the child, "with all the family, to stay until my brother Reggy sails away with his regiment. He is in camp now at Valcartier and we ride out to see himalmost every day in the motor. I'll take you if you like, some day."
French Canadian children are seldom rude, and to say to this little Canadian girl who adored soldiers, that she, Oisette, didn't like them, would be awkward. At this moment the band struck up "God save the King" to mark the close of its morning concert; and the little visitor closed her parasol with a snap, stood at attention, and sang in her childish treble:
"God save our gracious King,[2]Long live our noble King,God save our King.Send him victorious,Happy and glorious,Long to reign over us.God save our King."
And when that was over, Oisette saw her father approaching, so she hoped she would not have to say that she didn't care much about a ride to Valcartier. But little Miss Sage had no idea of forsaking Oisette; she was too delighted to find some one from home. So she also greeted Mr. Tremblent with joy.