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Contents

Preface xvii

C H A P T E R 1 REL ATING WORDS, PHR ASES, A N D SLOTS 1

What Grammar Does 1
Grammar and Our View of Language 2
Parts of Speech 4
What Nouns Do 5
Verbs, Modal Auxiliaries, and Tense 7
Adjectives Specify Characteristics of Nouns 7
Adverbs Orient Readers and Listeners 8
Prepositions Precede Noun Phrases 10
Try This 11
Words and Grammar 12
Grammatical Slots Identify Phrases 12
Grammatical Analysis and Chicken Parts 13
Heads, Attributes, and Hierarchies 14
Basic Sentence Structure 15
The Yes/No Question Test 16

vii
viii Contents

Knowledge and Practice 17

Chapter Summary: Words, Hierarchies, and Constituents 17
EXERCISES 18
I. IDENTIFYING SENTENCE CONSTITUENTS 18
Thinking Critically about Grammar 21

C H A P T E R 2 IDENTIF Y ING V ERBS A N D CORE SENTENCES 22

Verbs and Core Sentences 22
Verbs: The Basic Sentence Components 22
Intransitive Verbs 23
Linking Verbs 24
Transitive Verbs 26
Two-Place Transitive Verbs 27
Try This 30
The Verb BE 32
Verbs and Slots and Sentence Nuclei 33
Verbs Change Types 35
Try This 36
Reference Material 36
Tree Diagrams 37
Diagrams as Tools 42
Multiple-Word Verbs 44
So You Say 47
Chapter Summary: The Six Verb Types 48
EXERCISES 49
I. IDENTIFYING VERB TYPES 49
Thinking Critically about Grammar 51

C H A P T E R 3 E X PA NDING V ERB PHR ASES 52

Tense, Modality, and Aspect 52
Status of the Main Verb 52
 Contents ix

Tense 54
Finiteness 56
Mood and Purpose 56
Conditional Mood 56
Conditional Mood and Possibility 58
Try This 59
Future Time and Conditional Mood Again 59
So You Say 60
Aspect 61
Perfect Aspect 61
Past Participles 62
Progressive Aspect 63
Present Participles 65
Conditional, Perfective, and Progressive 65
Tense Form of Main Verb 66
Principal Parts 66
The Words in the Main Verb 67
Designating the Status of a Main Verb 69
How to Expand a Main Verb 69
Regular and Irregular Verbs 70
So You Say 71
Chapter Summary: Components of the Main Verb 72
EXERCISES 73
I. CHANGING MAIN-VERB FORMS 73
II. IDENTIFYING VERB STATUS AND ANALYZING
SENTENCES 73
Thinking Critically about Grammar 76

C H A P T E R 4 E X PLORING NOU N PHR ASES 77

Noun Phrase Components 77
Proper and Common Nouns 77
x Contents

Determiners 78
Definite Articles 79
Demonstratives 79
Possessive Pronouns 80
Numbers 81
Prearticles 82
Try This 85
Postnoun Modifiers 85
Genitives 86
Genitive Rather than Possessive 87
Personal, Reflexive, and Indefinite Pronouns 90
So You Say 92
Chapter Summary: Function Words Can Expand
Noun Phrases 93
EXERCISES 94
I. IDENTIFYING NOUN CONSTITUENTS AND
ANALYZING SENTENCES 94
Thinking Critically about Grammar 97

C H A P T E R 5 RE A RR A NG ING A N D COMPOU N DING 98

Changing Core Sentences 98
Making Negative Sentences 98
Changing Statements into Yes/No Questions 101
Wh-Question Sentences 104
So You Say 108
Passive Sentences 108
Deleting By from a Passive 111
Core Arrangement of Passive Constituents 111
Past Participles and Adjectives 113
So You Say 113
Get as a Passive Auxiliary 114
Rearranging a Passive Sentence 114
Status and Passive 115
 Contents xi

Existential-There Sentences 116

Expletives 117
Imperative Sentences 118
Deleting You and Will from Imperative Sentences 118
Diagraming Imperative Sentences 119
Imperative Sentences Lack Tense 119
The Negative Form of Imperatives 120
Compounding Structures 120
Coordinate and Correlative Conjunctions 122
Conjoining and Commas 123
Parallel Structure 125
Try This 126
Attaching Conjunctions 127
Conjunctive Adverbs 127
Chapter Summary: Rearranging and Compounding
Core Sentences 128
EXERCISES 130
I. REARRANGING AND COMPOUNDING
SENTENCES 130
II. ANALYZING SENTENCES 131
Thinking Critically about Grammar 133

C H A P T E R 6 CONSTRUCTING REL ATI V E CL AUSES 135

Dependent Clauses 135
Why We Combine Clauses 135
A Relative Clause Embeds into a Noun Phrase 136
The Way It Was Is the Way It Is 138
Relative Clauses and Sentences 138
Restrictive Relative Clauses as Adjectives 139
Making a Relative Clause 141
Relative Pronouns Replace Noun Phrases 142
Whose Replaces a Possessive Pronoun or a Genitive Noun 144
Relative Pronouns in Prepositional Phrases 146
xii Contents

So You Say 146

The Functions of Fronted Relatives 147
Finding the Constituents of the Relative Clause 148
Deleting Object Noun Phrases from Relative Clauses 149
Try This 150
Embedding Relative Clauses into Subordinate Clauses 150
Chapter Summary: Constituents in Independent
or Dependent Clauses 152
EXERCISES 153
I. COMBINING SENTENCES 153
II. BREAKING OUT UNDERLYING SENTENCES 154
III. ANALYZING SENTENCES 154
Thinking Critically about Grammar 158

C H A P T E R 7 REDUCING REL ATI V E CL AUSES TO PHR ASES 159

Deriving Prepositional and Participial Phrases 159
Reducing Clauses 159
Participial Phrases are Verb Phrases 161
Making Some Verbs into Present Participles 162
Deriving Past Participial Phrases 162
Embedded Prepositional Phrases 163
Try This 164
Constituency: Adjective or Adverbs 165
How the Components of an Embedded Phrase Function 166
Prepositional Phrases Headed by With 167
We Won’t Derive One-Word Modifiers 167
Embedded Phrases and Commas 168
Making Long Sentences from Just a Few Kinds of Phrases
and Clauses 169
 Contents xiii

The Clauses That Underlie a Sentence’s Constituents 172

Grammatical Ambiguity 173
Chapter Summary: Phrases Derived from Relative Clauses 175
EXERCISES 176
I. BREAKING OUT UNDERLYING SENTENCES 176
II. COMBINING SENTENCES 176
III. ANALYZING SENTENCES 177
Thinking Critically about Grammar 181

C H A P T E R 8 M A KING NOUN CL AUSES, GERUNDS,

A N D IN FIN ITI V ES 182
Noun Clauses, Gerunds, and Infinitives Fill Noun Phrase
Slots 182
That-Clauses 182
Noun Clauses Fill Noun Phrase Slots 185
Try This 186
Extraposing That-Clauses 186
Some Sentences with Expletives and Noun Clauses Don’t Seem
to Be Derived 188
Wh-Subordinators Act as Content Words within Noun
Clauses 188
Wh-Clauses Are Related to Question Sentences 191
Reducing Clauses to Infinitive Phrases 193
Infinitives without To 195
Infinitive Phrases Introduced by For . . . To 195
Some Infinitives Function as Adverbs 197
So You Say 198
Gerunds Are -ing Verb Forms 199
Gerund Phrases May Contain a Subject in the Genitive Form 200
xiv Contents

Studying Grammar is Cumulative 201

Try This 202
Chapter Summary: Embedded Structures That Fill Noun Phrase
Slots in Matrix Clauses 203
EXERCISES 203
I. BREAKING OUT UNDERLYING SENTENCES 203
II. COMBINING SENTENCES 204
III. ANALYZING SENTENCES 205
Thinking Critically about Grammar 208

C H A P T E R 9 A DDING MODIFIERS TO SENTENCES 209

Nonrestrictive Modifiers 209
Nonrestrictive Modifiers are not Bound within Phrases 209
Nonrestrictive Relative Clauses Sit Next to Noun Phrases 210
Nonrestrictive Relative Clauses Make Added Comments 212
Try This 213
Nonrestrictive Participial Phrases 214
Nonrestrictive Participial Phrases Function as Adverbs 214
Appositives Sit Next to Nouns 215
So You Say 216
Absolute Phrases 218
Adverb Clauses Share Some Characteristics of Nonrestrictive
Modifiers 221
Adverb Clauses and Subordinate Conjunctions 223
Nonrestrictive Modifiers Change the Pace, Rhythm, and Movement
in Sentences 224
A Grammar Course Should Prepare You to Analyze
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 Contents xv

Real Sentences 225

Chapter Summary: Doing Grammar is About Understanding
the System That Generates Sentences 227
EXERCISES 228
I. BREAKING OUT UNDERLYING SENTENCES 228
II. COMBINING SENTENCES 229
III. ANALYZING SENTENCES 229
Thinking Critically about Grammar 233

C H A P T E R 10 W H AT CA N YOU DO NOW TH AT YOU CA N DO

G R A M M A R? 235
Reflecting on Writing and Reading 235
Writing Styles 236
Better Writers Match Sentence Structure with Content 242
Most Punctuation Can Be Addressed with Three Principles 243
Try This 249
Teachers Should Point Out Interesting and Effective Student
Sentences 249
Chapter Summary: Good Writers, Good Readers, and Good
Teachers Understand the Options Grammar Gives Us to
Construct Sentences 251
EXERCISES 252
Thinking Critically about Grammar 253

Answer Key A-255

Glossary G-339
Index I-351
Preface

By Max Morenberg

I doubt whether any school subject is so universally dreaded and

loathed by students and remembered with as much discomfort by
adults. The term “grammar” will generally make people grimace and
snarl. When I want to free myself from a particularly obnoxious person
at a cocktail party, all I have to do is tell him that I’m a grammarian.
Without fail, he’ll lower his head and sidle away, mumbling into his
shirt collar, “I never did well at that in school.” When I like the person
and want to continue the conversation, I say I’m a linguist.
If you’re one of those who would rather eat lint than “do gram-
mar,” I know how you feel, because I hated grammar as a kid. I even
failed eleventh-grade English because of my animosity for the subject.
Grammar classes seemed an endless repetition of silly rules and mind-
less diagrams that took up a portion of every year from third grade to
twelft h grade. The lessons never stuck in my mind because nothing
about grammar ever seemed to make sense. Grammar was something
you had to endure, like the awful-tasting cough syrup that was sup-
posed to be good for you.
It’s odd that so many of us hate studying grammar. It’s like cats
hating to stalk prey. Or dolphins learning to dislike swimming.
Humans are as much language animals as cats are stalking animals
and dolphins are swimming animals. We are born to love language and
everything associated with it—rhythm, rhyme, word meanings, gram-
mar. If you want to make a three-year-old child roll on the floor laugh-
ing, just tell her a riddle, or alliterate words, or read her Dr. Seuss’s
lilting rhythms and rhymes about cats in hats or elephants who are

xvii
xviii Preface

“faithful, one hundred percent” or Sam I Am eating green eggs and

ham on a boat with a goat. Listen to a child in a crib entertaining him-
self by repeating sounds and syllables, playing with language. Think
about the games you played in kindergarten by creating strange words
like Mary Poppins’ “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” Keep a ten-
year-old entertained on a car trip by producing odd sentences in a “Mad
Libs” game. Then ask an eighth grader what subject she hates most. The
answer will invariably be grammar. We’re born to love grammar. We
are taught to hate it.
I was taught to hate it by well-meaning teachers who presented
grammar as morality lessons of do’s and don’ts, linguistics etiquette.
I learned only the most trivial lessons—that you shouldn’t end sen-
tences in prepositions or start sentences with conjunctions or write
fragments. When I found professional writers who used fragments,
who ended sentences with prepositions, or who began them with con-
junctions, I was told that it’s all right for professional writers to break
the rules because they know them. Not a satisfactory answer. It made
me disdain the subject even more.
Then, in a junior-level grammar class at Florida State University,
Kellogg Hunt introduced me to Paul Roberts’ English Sentences, and
I began to see grammar in a new way. Before I read Roberts’ book,
grammar was just an endless list of pointers and admonitions to me:
Do this, don’t do that. Roberts said that grammar is “something that
produces the sentences of a language.” He went on to explain that
grammar is a system that puts words into an understandable order.
Roberts illustrated the point with a simple game. You put words on
twenty-five cards, one word to a card, and place the cards in a hat. The
words are face, my, never, his, dog, usually, car, struck, the, liked,
a, washed, window, sometimes, seldom, George, stroked, he, she,
Annabelle, her, goldfish, often, Sam, touched. If you pick the cards
from the hat, one at a time, and place them in rows of five, you’ll prob-
ably never produce an English sentence. You’ll get nonsense like struck
the she Sam touched. But if you first arrange the cards into stacks fol-
lowing the pattern Sam never stroked his window, and pick them in
order starting with the Sam stack, you’ll always produce a five-word
sentence like George usually struck my goldfish or Annabelle some-
times touched her dog. In fact, there are hundreds of such sentences
in the hat. What you’ve done by arranging the cards is to sort words
 Preface xix

into classes and then put the classes in order. If you play long enough
with the sentences, you discover important facts about the ordering of
words—that words make constituents, units like his window, washed
his window, seldom washed his window, and Sam seldom washed his
window. You find that a noun phrase can fit within a verb phrase, that
the new verb phrase can pattern with another noun phrase to make
a sentence: you’ve learned that constituents form hierarchies. You
may also discover that some noun phrases can’t function as subjects
for some verb phrases and that some noun phrases can’t function as
objects with some verbs. My window never stroked she isn’t an English
sentence, though it follows the pattern Noun Phrase + Adverb + Verb
+ Noun Phrase.
Roberts’ game is a pretty simple idea. But it was a revelation to
me: grammar is like a machine that fabricates sentences according to
a set of discernible principles. When we speak or write, we don’t throw
words into sentences at random: we order them according to a dis-
cernable system. We build constituents and relate them to one another
within hierarchical frameworks. Grammar made sense to me.
The next revelation was that you can take the simple sentences pro-
duced by such a grammar machine and put them together into new
and different combinations, because the grammar of a language keeps
recycling material, using the same constituents over and over in new
combinations. In this way, grammar produces an infinite number of
sentences from a small number of core constituents, or modules.
To introduce beginning linguistics students to this idea, I ask them
to combine two sentences into one in as many ways as they can. My
favorite two sentences for this exercise are It surprised me and Jane
arrived late, sentences that my colleague Andy Kerek made up several
years ago. If you try the exercise, remember that you can add words
like and, or when, or if, and you can change the forms of words—for
example, from arrive to arriving or arrival. Students will typically
come to the next class with fift y or sixty combinations. The all-time
champ was a mathematically inclined student who ran a factor analysis
on the combinations and produced 467 new sentences, stopping, he
said, not because he couldn’t continue but because he finally got bored
with the task.
Those two ideas, the grammar machine and the combining exer-
cise, inform everything in this book. Chapter 1 defines categories
xx Preface

like noun, adjective, adverb, and preposition and shows how those
categories build into constituents that fit together within hierarchies.
Chapter 2 introduces you to six verb types that are central to the core
sentences and determine what structures and functions can exist
within them. Chapters 3 and 4 expand the concepts of verb phrases
and noun phrases. Chapter 5 shows how you can rearrange or com-
pound components of the core sentences. Chapter 6 explains how you
combine core sentences into relative clauses, while Chapter 7 describes
how to reduce those clauses to phrases. Chapter 8 demonstrates how
you combine core sentences into substitutes for nouns—noun clauses,
gerunds, and infinitives. Chapter 9 explores ways you combine sen-
tences into nonrestrictive modifiers. Finally, Chapter 10 shows that
your knowledge of grammar can enhance your understanding of writ-
ing styles and may even help you improve your writing.
Mastering the technical vocabulary and concepts in Doing
Grammar demands the kind of studying you’d put into a science or
math course. Go through the book slowly and methodically. Underline
important concepts and write notes in the margins. Don’t move ahead
until you understand what you’re reading. But don’t be afraid of doing
grammar, either. You already know more grammar than you suspect.
You speak, write, and understand language without ever thinking
about the identity and function of grammatical constituents.
The best that a textbook like this can do is make you conscious of
how language operates to produce sentences. Grammar works by put-
ting words, phrases, and clauses together into sentences. Any native
speaker of English can make It surprised me and Jane arrived late into
It surprised me that Jane arrived late, Jane surprised me by arriving
late, or When Jane arrived late, I was surprised. When you complete
Doing Grammar, you should be able to identify that Jane arrived late
as a noun clause which functions as a logical subject, arriving late as
a gerund phrase that functions as the object of the preposition by, and
when Jane arrived as an adverb clause of time.
We all put sentences together. Putting together is natural; taking
apart and labelling is learned. The idea behind Doing Grammar is that
if you can see how you put sentences together, you can understand
how to take them apart. It takes practice to learn grammatical analy-
sis. So, besides the explanations, each chapter has lots of sentences for
you to analyze. I hope you find them appealing as well as challenging.
 Preface xxi

I’ve devoted a great deal of time and effort to finding example sen-
tences that are interesting. Besides hating mindless grammar exercises,
I always hated the sentences in grammar books because they were so
lifeless that you could be sure they occurred nowhere else but grammar
books. The sentences in Doing Grammar are real sentences—vivid and
detailed.
Doing Grammar is not tied to one ideology. Its terminology is
traditional. It draws upon both traditional and generative gram-
mars for its basic concepts. It is rooted in the traditional principles of
Otto Jespersen as well as in the contemporary formulations of Noam
Chomsky, with an admixture of Kenneth Pike’s Tagmemics and
Robert Allen’s Sector Analysis. It is nurtured through the textbook
explanations of Paul Roberts and the language development research
of Kellogg Hunt. When I have questions, I usually look for answers in
Quirk, Greenbaum, Svartvik, and Leech’s A Comprehensive Grammar
of the English Language. Nowadays, I also look in Huddleston and
Pullum’s The Cambridge Grammar of the English Language. I also find
questions and answers in cyberspace, particularly from the listserv for
the Assembly of Teachers of English Grammar. The scholarly works,
the textbooks, and other linguists and grammarians I’ve learned from
through the years form the book’s academic credentials.
I have attempted to make the technical and obscure clear and sen-
sible. The book assumes, loosely, that a small number of core sentences
composed of basic classes of constituents can be rearranged or com-
bined into new, more elaborate sentences. It also assumes that if you
learn to analyze the structures and relationships in the core sentences,
you will be able to analyze the structures and relationships in the new
combinations. After working through Doing Grammar, you should be
able to read and understand a traditional grammar text or be prepared
to begin the study of linguistic theory. And you should be able to reflect
more thoughtfully on how writers, including yourself, use language to
create stylistic effects.

From the Editors

The editors at Oxford University Press wish to thank Max Morenberg
for his lifetime of teaching grammar. We also thank Jared Haynes, who
carried out the vision that Max had for this edition. And we thank the
reviewers listed below as well for their helpful opinions and suggestions
xxii Preface

as we worked on this edition. Max’s goal with this book was to make
grammar an accessible and interesting subject for all students. We
hope that this new edition will continue that important tradition.

Changes in the Fifth Edition

(revised by Jared Haynes)

At the time of Max Morenberg’s death, he had already considered the
feedback his fourth edition received from teachers who reviewed it,
and, in discussion with his editor at Oxford University Press, he had
made plans for the fift h edition. Many of his planned changes have
been carried out here, I hope in the spirit and style with which he
would have written them himself.
One of the main suggestions that reviewers made was to reverse
the order of the first two chapters, so that a basic discussion of the parts
of speech comes before the introduction of individual verb types. That
change involved quite a lot of revising and careful checking to make
sure that the new first chapter didn’t use concepts and terms that hadn’t
been carefully introduced yet because the order of the material had
been switched. The new arrangement seems to produce the more logi-
cal order that the reviewers were hoping for.
Another major change is the comparisons of writing styles in
Chapter 10, with some discussion of audience and rhetorical situation.
This can be but an introduction to the idea of varying styles, but it
allows the chapter to be used more fruitfully by students in a wider
variety of disciplines
A significant addition to the text is the three types of inserted
study elements: Try This, So You Say, and Thinking Critically about
Grammar. Try This sections are quick practice exercises on concepts
just introduced in a chapter. So You Say sections examine expressions
or ways of using language that raise questions for grammar and usage.
The Thinking Critically about Grammar sections at the ends of chapters
ask students to give some thought to how English differs from other
languages or present exercises in thinking about how English is used.
In keeping with the spirit of the fourth edition, I have continued
to slim down the book where I felt that explanations were confusing
or needed consolidation. But I have also added some material where
I felt it would clarify an explanation. For example, I added a section in
 Preface xxiii

Chapter 5 on parallel structure, because I felt that it would show stu-

dents the importance of using coordination correctly. In Chapter 4, the
discussion of genitive noun phrases has been clarified by going back to
some ideas in the second edition that were more logical. And, where
appropriate, comments on proper punctuation have been inserted.
Most of the sentences in the chapters and in the exercises already
have those qualities that Max valued of universality and specificity. But
several have been changed to make the references to American culture
and history more up-to-date. In addition, many small errors in the
diagrams for these sentences have been fi xed; most of the problems
were omitted labels. The diagrams in the text and in the answer key
should now be consistently and accurately labeled to represent the les-
sons in the chapters.
The glossary that Max first introduced in the fourth edition has
now been expanded to insure that all the terms introduced in the text,
as well as any alternative forms of the terms, can be found there.
Despite these rearrangements, additions, and subtractions, this
book remains Max Morenberg’s. The guiding principle here, as always,
is the same: “You learn to understand grammar by Doing Grammar.”

Acknowledgments
This book is the result of the long-standing effort and passion of its
author and creator, Max Morenberg. He was the driving force behind
not only its first four editions, but the plan for this one as well, and
I am grateful to him for creating such an admirable tool for learning
grammar.
The Oxford University Press editors are as good as textbook editors
get. Jan Beatty, the book’s first editor, acquired the book, and worked
on it along with her associate editor, Cory Schneider. Fred Speers,
its current editor, and his assistant editor, Talia Benamy, brought it
through to this edition.
Finally, the many reviewers provided ideas and insights as teach-
ers and scholars. They are Nancy J. Caplow, University of North Texas;
Susan Gimprich, Fairleigh Dickinson University; Rob Montgomery,
Kennesaw State University; Mark Stevens, Southern Polytechnic State
University; Chris P. Pearce, Boston University; Isabel Serrano, Ball
State University; Brittny Mandarino, University of Houston; Barbara
Karman, Kent State University; Yousif A. Elhindi, East Tennessee State
Other documents randomly have
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take the last.”
Each did as he was bidden, and all night through the wind and
storm the two little boys, the aged man whose fires of life had burned
so low, and the young girl kept vigil. All night long the cries of “All’s
well” rang from bastion to blockhouse, making it appear as if the
place was fully manned by a large garrison. At about one o’clock the
old man who was on guard at the place on the bastion nearest the
gate, called out,—
“Mademoiselle, I hear something, mayhap the enemy.”
His voice quavered with fear and fatigue, and as Madelon hurried
to him she feared the worst had come.
“Where is it that thou hearest something?” asked Madelon, hardly
above her breath.
“There, just below, at the gate of the fort.”
“Surely I see them too, and well I know the poor creatures, since
for many a day this summer past have I driven them to pasture.”
The snow had whitened the ground, so that Madelon’s bright eyes
had been able to distinguish that the dark forms huddled at the gate
were the poor remnant of the cattle that had not been killed or driven
off by the Iroquois. Summoning the others from the blockhouse, they
took counsel together as to whether they should open the gate and let
the cattle in. The men were all anxious to do this, but Madelon feared
the crafty foe.
“How canst thou tell but what we let in the savages also? Such
creatures of wile are they, that we know not if they be not concealed
in the hides of the beasts already slaughtered, and if we are simple
enough to open the gate they may enter the fort.”
An hour passed, and still the cattle stood there, and there were no
signs that the enemy was among them. So at last Madelon called
Louis and Alexander.
“Brothers,” she said, “we must get in the cattle if it be possible. You
shall stand on either side of the gate and have your guns cocked,
while I go forth and drive the beasts in. If the Indians make a rush,
shoot, and then shut the gate as quickly as thou canst.”
The heavy gate was swung back, and Madelon stepped out. It did
not take long for her to drive in the few cattle that remained of the
generous herd that had gone to pasture that morning.
The remainder of the night passed away without any further
alarms, and when darkness disappeared, many of the fears and
anxieties of the small garrison disappeared also, as it is always easier
to face the fears that may be seen than those that are born of the
imagination.
 II
With the dawning of the second day of the defence of Castle
Dangerous, the spirits of all rose, all, that is, except one, and this was
Dame Marguerite, the wife of Sieur Fontaine. She, poor soul, had but
lately come from Paris, and was yet a stranger to the difficulties and
dangers of life in the wilderness.
Her complaints were unceasing, and she gave her husband no rest,
constantly imploring him to carry her to another fort. Her selfish
thought was for herself alone, and she cried,—
“Save me, Pierre, save me. Was it to expose me to such horrible
danger that you sent for me to come from Paris, where I was safe and
happy?”
“I sent for you and our children, that we might all be together and
make a home in this new free land. But methinks that perhaps it had
been best to let thee remain where thou wast, and where there was
nothing to disturb thy ease.”
“It is in my heart to wish well that I was there again, Pierre, and
had never seen this hateful wilderness. Oh, wilt thou not take me to
some place of safety ere I die with fright?”
“Peace, woman, and shame me no further by thy childish plaint,
for the very children are more brave than thou. As for Mademoiselle
Madelon, she has the courage of a man, though she is but a girl, nor
will I ever leave this fort while she is here to defend it.”
After this the woman subsided into a peevish quiet, which was at
least easier to bear than her complaints. All the others, even those
who had lost fathers, husbands, or brothers, put aside their griefs,
and united in an effort to compass their common safety. The meals
were served out as usual, the work inside the fort progressed as it did
each day, since each one felt that the best way to keep grief at bay
was to occupy one’s self in helping others. During the middle of the
afternoon all the people were called together by Madelon, so that
their situation could be discussed. The soldiers, poor creatures, knew
not what to counsel, and sought only to stay in the blockhouse, the
safest spot. Small account was taken of them, though they were the
very ones to whom the others should have looked for protection.
Sieur Fontaine, the old man, and the two boys were of course for
staying, and not endeavouring to escape by night down the river.
Encouraged by them, Madelon made a little speech to the garrison
and the women and children under their charge.
“Dear friends,” said she, “never willingly will I give up the fort.
Rather would I die than that the enemy should gain it. Hear what my
father said to me, that it was of the greatest importance that the
Iroquois should never gain possession of any French fort, since, if
they gained one, soon they would grow more bold, and think they
could get others, and after that all safety would be at an end.”
“What you say is true enough,” said the Sieur Fontaine, rising in
his turn to encourage the people. “Nor may any of us complain, if a
girl be brave enough to stay on the bastions for a day and a night
without rest or repose, and who ever carries before us a cheerful face.
I, for one, cry, ‘Viva, viva! Long live brave Madelon!’”
“Viva, viva!” they cried, one and all; and the feeble garrison
returned to their posts, reanimated and hopeful that relief would
come to save them.
For a weary week they were in constant alarm. Each day showed
them the enemy lurking about, and each night made them fearful
that the attack which had not come during the light would be
attempted during the darkness. But every night dragged itself away
at last, and each morning brought, if not the help so eagerly
expected, at least courage to wait for it. On the eighth night poor
weary Madelon was dozing in the fort, with her head pillowed on a
table, and her gun beside her, when she heard the sentinel on watch
call,—
“Qui vive?”
She sprang to her feet, and with her gun in her hand ran up on to
the bastion.
“Why called you?”
“Listen, Mademoiselle! Dost thou not hear a sound on the river
like the splashing of oars?”
“Surely yes; there are voices too. Canst thou tell if they be French
or Indian?”
 “No; they breathe so low, Mademoiselle.”
Madelon put her hands to her mouth, and called low but clear,—
“Who are you?”
The answer came back in the loved French accents,—
“We are Frenchmen. It is La Monnerie, who comes from down the
river to bring you aid.”
The gate was flung open wide, but even yet Madelon’s caution did
not desert her, for she placed a sentinel on guard, and then alone, as
she had gone before, she marched down to the landing-place to meet
the soldiers. When she came face to face with Lieutenant La
Monnerie, she saluted, and—
“Monsieur,” said she, “I surrender my arms to you.”
Being a gallant Frenchman, and as yet hardly understanding the
situation, knowing that there were soldiers within the fort, he
answered,—

“I HAVE COMMANDED THIS FORT,

MONSIEUR, DURING THE ABSENCE OF
MY FATHER.”—Page 125.
 “Mademoiselle, they are in good hands”; but he smiled as he said
it, looking on the girlish form before him, with its soldier cap and
heavy gun. Madelon saw the smile, and who can blame her that she
answered,—
“In better hands than you think. Will Monsieur come and inspect
the fort?”
The Lieutenant and his forty men followed her up to the fort,
found everything in order, and a sentinel on each bastion. He turned
with a look of surprise to Madelon, and asked,—
“Why does not the commandant of this fort come to receive me?”
“I have commanded this fort, Monsieur, during the absence of my
father, since there was none other either willing or able to do it. Will
Monsieur give me his orders?”
The surprised lieutenant, after looking again about him, turned
and bowed.
“What commands does Mademoiselle wish me to give? For my
part, there seems nothing for me to alter.”
“If Monsieur will relieve the garrison, it would be well, since none
of us have been off the bastions for a week.”
We can well imagine that there were deep and peaceful slumbers
in Castle Dangerous that night, and let us hope that the cowardly
soldiers had to take their turn at last at bastion duty. I cannot find in
the history that they did, however.
Think of the pride and pleasure that Madelon’s father and mother
felt in their daughter when the news of her bravery reached them!
What they said to her when she told them all about it, history does
not say either; but the facts of the defence were written down as
Madelon herself told them, in obedience to the commands of the
Marquis de Beauharnais, Governor of Canada.
Even in those dangerous times, when one never knew what peril
the next moment would bring forth, and women as well as men took
their share in guarding homes and firesides, such wonderful bravery
and determination in a girl of fourteen did not pass unnoticed.
Through the efforts of those in power, Madelon was highly
commended at the great French court over seas, and was granted a
pension by the King, to be paid to her each year as long as she should
live.
In another encounter with Indians many years later, she saved the
life of a French gentleman whom she afterward married. All her life
was passed in the midst of peril, and on no occasion when bravery
was demanded was Madelon ever found wanting.
 The Pearl Necklace
1767

I
“Good-bye,” she said.
And then again, “Good-bye.”
The voice of the young girl was choked with sobs, and tears rolled
slowly down her cheeks.
“Good-bye, dear garden; good-bye, dear home”; and as she spoke
she stopped and looked up at the old grey chateau which the warm
afternoon sun had made glow with tints of rose and gold.
She made a pretty picture standing there, even though her eyes
were red with weeping, for her clustering curls were drawn high on
her graceful head with a great comb, the lack of powder letting their
bright chestnut tones shine in the warm evening light. A gaily
flowered gown of simple muslin, less ample in its cut than the style
affected by those who lived nearer the court, was fashioned so as to
show a slender white throat. The delicate ruffles at elbow and neck
showed that even in the country Mechlin, the lace of the hour, had its
wearers.
Looking about, eyes even less partial than hers would cease to be
surprised that parting with so fair a scene should cause such grief. To
Clemence Valvier the chateau was home. There she was born, had
grown to girlhood, and though but seventeen was not only a wife, but
the mother of a tiny child for whose sake she was preparing to leave
parents, country, home, and friends, and seek that little known land
across the sea where so many of her countrymen had gained a
footing in the wilderness.
 The pointed turrets of the chateau stood out sharply against the
deep blue of the afternoon sky, and the glass panes in the small
windows sparkled as the late sunbeams rested on them. On one side
huge vines of ivy clambered up the rough stones till they reached the
roof, and amid their hospitable leaves sheltered many a nest of linnet
and of sparrow, whose cheerful songs made music at morning and at
sunset.
Clemence stood in the garden looking sadly at the roses whose
sweet profusion was due in no small measure to her care. There was
the garden seat; here the sun-dial; yonder, above the wall which
bounded the garden, rose the dove-cote, around which constantly
hovered some of her feathered pets.
“How can I leave you all!” she cried, as each familiar object rose
before her eyes. “My courage wellnigh fails me”; and she sank on her
knees before the dial,—a grey veteran which gave no hint of time this
afternoon, since it marked only sunny hours, and already the long
shadows cast by the chateau fell across its face of stone.
Just at that moment, when she was almost willing to abandon the
thought of the long and terrible journey, she heard a footstep on the
gravel of the paths.
“Ah, Clemence, dear heart, it grieves me almost past endurance to
see your grief. Say but one word, and I will go forth alone, and shall
send back for you and the little one when a home is made ready and
when I have some comforts for you.”
At the first sound of her husband’s voice Clemence had jumped to
her feet, and running to him had laid her tear-stained face upon his
shoulder. As he finished speaking, she had almost brought a smile to
drive away the tears, and looking into his face she bravely made
answer,—
“If it wrings my heart to leave dear France, Pierre, it would be a
thousand times worse to have you go and leave me here, me and little
Annette, for whose sake we undertake all these perils.”
“If I could think that this was really so”; and Pierre, scarce more
than a youth himself, as he yet wanted several months of seeing
twenty years, bore on his face a gravity that is rarely seen on one so
young. His dark eyes were sad, and though he smiled when he
comforted his youthful wife, it seemed as though it was but to cheer
her. In truth, all his life he had comforted and protected her, for
Pierre Valvier, like Clemence, had called the old chateau, the rose
garden, the long straight terrace, and the fertile fields his home.
Left an orphan at an early age, under the guardianship of
Monsieur Bienville, the father of Clemence, the two children had
played together, studied together, and finally were wedded, and now
were preparing to go forth to the New World together.
At this time Louis XV sat upon the throne of France. He was a
weak monarch, devoted to his pleasures, and content to let his
ministers rule, although he always took an active part in all the
religious quarrels which disturbed and agitated France. Jealousy,
which had long been smouldering between France and England on
account of the various colonies in America to which each country laid
claim, broke out into war in 1756, and its effects were felt over the
whole world.
The brilliant victory of Admiral Galissonière at Fort St. Philip, the
chief citadel of Port Mahon on the Minorca Islands, the most
important naval victory which France had gained in fifty years, filled
the whole French nation with joy. Yet the succeeding years brought
little but ignominy and defeat, and The Seven Years War, as this
struggle was ultimately called, lost France not only the greater part of
her navy, but, what was even more galling, many of her possessions
in the New World.
Disapproval of the King and his ministers drove to what was left of
these colonies in America many Frenchmen of high character who
foresaw nothing but disaster left for France herself. Among these was
Pierre Valvier, who sought for himself and his little family a home in
that new country where liberty of person and creed was assured.
They were to start on the morrow for Calais, and thence take ship for
New Orleans.
The old chateau—old even in 1756—stood upon a gentle slope
looking down upon the little fishing village of Étaples. Such a tiny
village it was, with its one-story huts,—you could scarcely call them
more,—set upon the banks of the Canache, a broad shallow river so
influenced by the ocean that when the tide was low the fisher-girls
kilted up their scant skirts and waded across with their baskets of
shrimps upon their strong young shoulders.
 Such a little village, and so poor!
“Petit sou, petit sou, donnez-moi un petit sou!” That was the cry
heard on every side. There was hardly a hand in the hamlet which
would not be held out in expectation of a small copper coin, should
anyone from the chateau chance to pass through its one ill-paved
street.
Every year the poverty seemed to increase. Every year the revenues
of the chateau grew less,—which was but another reason why Pierre,
young and strong, should seek a home where those of gentle birth
were made welcome, and where the Crown gave broad acres of land
to each and all who would go and settle there.
Still, even with Hope and Courage beckoning, the parting was sad
for all. Monsieur Bienville, the father of Clemence, was a soldier of
the old régime. Tall, elegant, with the true air of grandeur which is
born, not bred, he watched with sad eyes the preparations for
departure. Madame his wife could not suppress her grief, and
declared that never, never again should she see her loved ones.
“Ah,” cried she, “the poor children will be devoured by frightful
beasts, I know it well,—if not by those that roam on land, by those
more awful ones which dwell in the sea!”
The distant land was to her a wilderness, a desert; and, in truth, a
few miles away from the city of New Orleans it was little else.
 II
The rain was falling heavily as the old travelling carriage, drawn by
four horses, lumbered up to the door of the chateau the next
morning. Into it had been packed the necessaries for the journey to
Calais, and two heavy wains had been sent off some days previously,
laden with such goods as the young people were to take with them to
the New World.
Within doors the daughter was taking leave of her parents, and as
if to shorten the sad moment, her father took her hand, and placed
within it a packet carefully bound in silk.
“Dear daughter,” said he, “see that this packet is carefully guarded.
In it is thy heritance, the pearl necklace which my mother had from
her mother, and which in its turn must go to thy daughter, the little
Annette.”
“Oh, father, why give to me that most precious thing? Safeguard it
till we come again, as, if God is willing, we shall.”
“It is yours, and then the daughter’s, and,” he whispered in her ear,
“I have added all the jewels which were my mother’s portion. Keep
them till time of need.”
The impatient stamping of the horses on the cobblestones of the
court, warned them all that they must part, and Pierre led Clemence
to the carriage, where little Annette was sleeping on the broad lap of
old Marie, who had petted and scolded her mother through her
babyhood and was now going with her on that long journey to the
land of which they knew so little and feared so much.
As if desirous of making up for lost time, Jacques cracked his whip,
and with the words, “Farewell, farewell,” ringing in the air, the coach
passed quickly down the long drive and through the gates leading to
the highroad, and turned in the direction of Boulogne, where they
were to pass that night.
The familiar scenes of her childhood never seemed so fair to
Clemence as at this moment when she was parting from them. Here
was the little church nestling among the trees, where she had
received her first communion, and there stood Père Joseph, waving
adieux from the old grey porch, the unfamiliar tear stealing down his
wrinkled cheek.
Farther along on the other side of the road was the Rose d’Or, the
quaint old inn, before whose hospitable door the village yokels were
wont to gather of a summer’s evening and play at bowls upon the
green. The very signboard as it hung above the door and swung in
the wind seemed to creak “farewell,” and as the travelling chariot
rolled by, Clemence hid her face upon her husband’s shoulder.
At last her sobs grew less violent, and as if to call attention from
her grief, little Annette awoke, and lying comfortable and rosy upon
the lap of her nurse, cooed out her satisfaction as only a healthy,
happy baby can. Pierre took the child in his arms, and the baby
stretched out her hands towards her mother, who, turning to take
her, found neglected in her own lap the parcel of jewels so carefully
wrapped and handed to her by her father as a parting gift.
“See, Pierre, my father gave to me the pearl necklace which I wore
on my wedding day, and it is to be the portion of little Annette, when
she too marries.”
Hardly had the words passed her lips, when rude shouts were
heard, and the coach gradually came to a standstill.
“Halt!” cried a voice almost beside the window, and old Jacques
the coachman could be heard saying,—
“But, messieurs, my master and mistress—”
“Peace, knave, let thy betters speak for themselves.”
At this a rude leering face was thrust into the window, and a man
pulled roughly at the carriage door and cried,—
“Step out, and quickly too, and bring out your valuables with you.”
“But we are travellers, and have with us barely enough to carry us
to Calais, where our ship lies at anchor,” said Pierre, trying not to let
his voice show his anger and disgust.
“What will serve you will serve us also at a pinch. Is it not so,
Jean?” and he turned to a third ruffian who stood at hand, holding by
the bridle some sorry-looking horses.
“Truth, if we take all they have, ’t will be enough, but do not wait
too long,” answered the one named Jean, who wore a soldier’s cap
with a soiled and broken feather trailing over one ear.
 At the first appearance of the highwaymen at the carriage window,
Clemence had handed little Annette to Marie, and in so doing had
managed to slip among her clothes the precious packet of jewels. She
gave Marie a warning look, and when they were commanded to step
from the coach, she begged, for the sake of the child, that it and the
nurse might sit within.
“You can see for yourselves that neither the infant nor the aged
woman has aught of value,” said she.
After hurriedly searching through the coach and finding nothing
more, the highwaymen contented themselves with carrying off
Pierre’s sword and a fair pearl ring which Clemence wore upon her
finger, and a small bag of golden doubloons which Pierre had in the
pocket of his travelling coat. The villainous trio had scarcely got
safely away, when the reason of their haste became apparent, for a
captain and four men-at-arms came around a turn in the road,
urging their horses to a smart trot, when they saw the travelling
carriage drawn up by the side of the ditch.
“Have three renegadoes passed this way?” called the leader, as
they drew rein.
“Truly, but a few moments since,” said Pierre, with a rueful face, as
he thought of his bag of gold. “It would have pleased me much had
you come this way but a few moments earlier, since I then had been
the richer for a purse of doubloons.”
“Stole they aught beside?” asked the captain, as he put spurs to his
horse and hardly waited for Pierre’s answer as they rode hastily away
in the direction the robbers had taken.
When once more the coach was in motion, Clemence turned to
Annette and clasped her in her arms, saying,—
“Of a truth, little one, ’twas fortunate indeed that you saved your
inheritance this time,—you and Marie.”
“Let us hide the packet better, Madame,” said Marie. “Who can tell
when another band of cutthroats may be upon us, and truly, as thou
saidst, it was but chance that saved us this time.”
Without any delay the packet was carefully tied among the long
skirts of little Annette, and Marie hardly ceased to tremble till the
coach rolled into the yard of the inn at Boulogne, and the red light
streaming from the open door showed them that warmth and shelter
were to be had within.
Early astir the next morning, refreshed and cheered because the
rain had ceased and the sun shone cheerfully abroad, our travellers
during the late afternoon of the next day entered the grey old town of
Calais, the little Annette unconsciously guarding the packet which
held her inheritance as well as the jewels which Monsieur Bienville
had given as a parting token to his daughter.
It was quite dark when the carriage was at last unpacked, and not
till then did Pierre draw from behind a secret panel in the side of the
coach the store of gold which was to suffice for their needs on board
ship, and till they were established in the new home which awaited
them on the other side of the ocean.
 III
In the harbour of Calais rode at anchor the ship “Espérance,”
which was taking on passengers and their goods for the long voyage
to New Orleans. Owing to the shallow water, the ship could not
approach the quay, and all the watermen of the town were busy
carrying back and forth those who, like our travellers, were outward
bound, or those who came merely to say a last farewell.
On the walls of the town were gathered a motley crew, who, not
having friends on board, sought to gain some excitement by watching
the partings of others; and as from time to time the chimes rang out
from the belfry behind the citadel, the little craft in the harbour
became even more animated, since they now carried out to the
“Espérance” some who had been belated on their way thither, and
sought to get themselves and their goods safely aboard before the
turn of the tide should serve to carry the ship out through the Straits
into the English Channel.
Watching this scene from the cramped deck of the ship, Clemence
and Pierre stood together, the former giving free vent to her tears,
which rolled unheeded down her cheeks at the thought that she was
leaving behind her so much which had hitherto made her life joyful.
Her sadness was reflected in her husband’s face, and at last he
spoke.
“Dear wife, ’tis not yet too late to return. Say one word, and I can
call one of those dingeys which shall carry us back to shore.”
“Nay, Pierre, I would go with you. But indeed I must weep, since
never again do these eyes expect to look on my beautiful France.”
“I pray your sacrifice may not cost too dear,” said Pierre, pressing
her hand; and as she wept she whispered,—
“The grief I feel at parting from France is naught compared to
what I should feel at parting from you.”
Even as she spoke, there began such a scene of bustle and
confusion that Clemence perforce dried her eyes to gaze upon it. The
sailors were running to and fro stowing the goods of passengers
away, and piled on the deck were feather-beds and pallets of straw,
each passenger providing such beds and covering as his station in life
permitted, since the ship provided only the room in which these
might be laid. Boatloads of people were leaving the ship, some merry,
some grave, and above all the noise rose the sharp commands of the
Captain. At last sounded the shrill notes of the boatswain’s whistle,
and the crew began to man the capstan bars. One of the sailors
commenced to sing to ease the labour off a bit, and at the sound of
the well-known chorus,
“Ho, ho, batelier, batelier,
Tirez, tirez,
Ancre de flot,
Tirez Roget, tirez Notet,”

the crew joined in, so that the bars worked like magic, and the
anchor rose into sight, then came short up, and finally, with another
drive of the bars, swung all wet and dripping at the bows.
Ere this the huge sails had been bent into place, and now with the
fresh evening breeze began to draw, while from every side came the
curious creak and tugging noise which is present in every sailing
craft. ’Twas not many moments ere the “Espérance” had her nose
pointed seaward, and was bowling along with the white foam flying
in her wake. All too quickly the shores and buildings of the town
receded from the sight of those who gazed on them with tears, and
even the belfry chimes had a melancholy sound as they floated out
over the water.
Pierre and Clemence stood by the rail, rather apart from the other
passengers, and when the purple twilight had swallowed up France,
Pierre said,—
“See, Clemence, a good omen. Look at the new moon.”
“It is a happy sign, and glad am I to see it. How silvery it looks, and
see the horn dips not at all, which argues well for a smooth voyage.”
Though the “Espérance” was not a swift craft, she was a steady
one. There were three weary months spent on board of her, and the
moon proved a false prophet, since they encountered storms and
head winds, and in addition had the alarm of pirates and the heat of
the tropics. Worse even than the perils of the Atlantic were those
encountered when they entered the Gulf of Mexico, where also
pirates lay in wait, where there were contrary currents, and worse
than all, sandbars, upon which the ship grounded. Many manœuvres
were tried to ease her off, and there was despair felt on all sides when
it was ordered that the baggage should be thrown overboard.
Fortunately this sacrifice became unnecessary, as the second high-
tide floated her off, and slowly the “Espérance” glided into deeper
water. Pierre and Clemence heard with joy the rattle of the chain as
the anchor was thrown overboard in the harbour of the Belize,
thinking, poor souls, that the sufferings of the journey were over.
Clemence turned with a bright smile to poor Marie, who sat upon a
pile of bedding which lay on the deck, where it had been thrown in
order to be ready for departure from the ship. The old nurse had
suffered greatly during the long, tedious journey, and even now she
looked sad and worn as she sat there in the sunshine, holding little
Annette on her knees.
“Come, Marie, look less sad; soon will we reach the spot where our
home is to be. Let me hold the little one.”
“Oh, Madame, little did I know of the horrors before us! Praise
God that we still live, we and the little cat.”
“Truly the little cat and Annette seem to have fared better than the
rest of us,” said Clemence, laughing. “Let us hope there will be fewer
mice than you expect.”
“But, Madame, a cat is so comfortable, and in this wild land there
be few enough comforts, I well know.”
Just at this moment Pierre hurried up to them, and said,—
“Come, Clemence, bring Annette, while Marie helps me, for the
Captain says we are to go ashore and wait at the house of the
Commandant till boats come for us from New Orleans.”
It was with scant ceremony that our little party and some of the
other passengers were packed into the ship’s boats and taken to
Dauphin Island. Here they were made comfortable, and during the
week of their stay recovered somewhat from the sufferings on
shipboard.
It was in two pirogues and two barges that they at last started on
the trip up the river to New Orleans, and for discomfort the seven
days passed in this journey far outdid all the fatigues sustained in the
“Espérance.”
 “Oh, Madame,” said Marie, “who ever saw ‘Messieurs les
Maringouins’ of such size and with such stings before?” and as she
spoke she waved again the huge fan with which she tried to protect
Annette from the ravages of the mosquitoes.
An hour before sunset the rowers stopped each day, and the whole
party encamped on shore, so as to get safely tucked in beneath the
mosquito bars before “les Messieurs” should begin operations.
If the nights were dreadful, the days were scarcely better, since the
boats were piled high with goods, so that the passengers were
cramped in narrow spaces and hardly dared to move. In fact, the
little cat in its wicker basket, and Annette carried on the broad breast
of Marie, were the most comfortable members of the party. They had
no fears of going to feed the fishes, as had some of their elders.
At length the weary trip was over, and when at length the boats
drew up at the landing much of the discomfort was forgotten.
The Crescent City lay before them, the white-walled houses
gleaming in the sunshine, while the bells of the Ursuline Convent
pealed a welcome, and there burned before the chapel of “Our Lady
of Prompt Succour” votive candles, to commemorate the safe arrival
of another band of travellers from the distant land which every one
in his heart called “home.”
“Pierre,” cried Clemence, surprise showing in every tone of her
clear voice, “but what a beautiful city! And oh, Pierre, behold the
lovely ladies! Scarce ever in my life have I seen such brave apparel.”
Her eyes were fixed, as she spoke, on a group which came idly
down towards the landing, the ladies elegant in robes of damask silk
loaded with lace and ribbons, while beside them lounged officers in
rich court suits, both men and women wearing powdered hair and
having their faces decorated with black patches.
Louisiana was passing through an interesting period of its growth,
a changing from the pioneer days when the young officers from
Canadian forts came down and made things lively with their merry
pranks and boyish larks, their ceremonies and festivals. The Marquis
de Vaudreuil was governor now, and brought with him the elegances
and dignity which he had learned in years of life at the French court.
The French and Swiss officers, but newly arrived, bore also the stamp
of continental training; and the house of the Marquis, reflecting as
well as might be the elegance of Versailles, was the centre of all that
was most refined in the city.
Tradition chatters yet of the gracious manners of the Marquis, and
there are still drawn from chests and carved presses robes which
once figured at his balls, when court dress was the only wear. Though
these gowns are now faded and tarnished, in the time when they
were first worn they flaunted brilliant flowers on a ground of gold.
The yellow bits of lace at elbow and corsage are frail now as a spider’s
web, but then they were the latest patterns from Alençon and
Flanders, and fit companions for the jewels which sparkled amongst
them.
It was at this time, when New Orleans boasted the greatest beauty
and elegance of any city in the New World, that our little family
landed on its quay.
It is hard to conceive that while within the limits of the city there
flowed such gay life as that seen in the Governor’s mansion, without,
and but a few miles away, were untrod wildernesses.
But so it was.
Pierre and Clemence rested but a few days before they sought out
the plantation where they so fondly hoped to raise a home and enjoy
the fruits of the rich country which they had chosen as their own.
The roads were poor, horses high in price and not at all plenty, so
that Pierre bought some pirogues, a species of small boat, to take
them and their goods the twenty miles up the Bayou Gentilly, to
where their plantation lay.
Poor Clemence, how gloomy looked the cypress swamps which
stretched away on either hand as the heavily laden boats moved
slowly along! Strange and unfamiliar were the long curtains of grey
moss which swung back and forth from the branches of the trees,
seeming to wave in a ghostly fashion even when there was no wind,
and creeping up to the tops of the tallest trees in its silent fashion,
but ever turning aside from the bunches of mistletoe which stood
out, great rosettes of bright green where all else seemed marked for
decay.
Even the brilliant-hued birds which flitted cheerfully from one
twig to another, and sang from time to time, did not cheer her, for
they seemed so unfamiliar, her mind clinging more to those modest-
coated friends, the linnets and finches, which she had fed in the rose
garden at the chateau at Étaples.
Ever anxious to cheer her, Pierre said at last,—
“Sing, dearest Clemence. It seems so long since I heard your
voice.”
“How can I sing when my heart is sad?” But even as she spoke she
was sorry, since she knew that the good spirits of the little party
depended largely on herself.
“What shall I sing, Pierre?” she asked, after a moment’s pause, and
then, as if it had been on the tip of her tongue all the while, began,—
“Chante, rossignol, chante,
Toi qu’as le cœur tant gai.

“Pour moi, je ne l’ai guère,

Mon amant m’a quittée,

“Pour un bouton de rose

Que trop tôt j’ai donné.

“Je voudrais que la rose

Fût encore au rosier;

“Et que la rosier même

Fût encore a planter;

“Et que mon ami Pierre

Fût encore a m’aimer.

“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.”
On the forenoon of the second day the boats drew up to the shore,
and Pierre, anxious, but looking cheerful, said,—
“Welcome to your new home, Clemence. Give me the little
Annette, Marie, since she, with her mother, must be the first to step
on shore.”
“Home, say you, Pierre?” and Clemence laughed, and looked
ruefully, too, at the little log-cabin which had been hastily built by
the negroes sent on in advance by Pierre.
“Patience but for a little while, and in place of that rude home you
shall see a house as fair as any in these plantations.”
Laughing like two children, the young parents hastened to touch to
the ground one of Annette’s tiny feet cased in its sandal, and as
Monsieur Valvier handed the child back to its mother, he said,—
“What is that which makes the child’s garments so stiff?”
A warning glance from Clemence and a smothered exclamation
from Marie made him remember that it was the precious packet with
the pearl necklace and jewels, of which the little girl was still the
unconscious custodian.
In New Orleans, indeed, they had been forced to draw on the
packet, since it was necessary to have slaves to help them build and
plant, and though there were frequent importations of them from
Africa, the value of one working slave was equal to a thousand dollars
of our money, and while it was generally paid in rice, Pierre, a new-
comer, was obliged to pay in money. In order to do this, and also buy
the precious seed which was so necessary, his own store was more
than exhausted, and but for the packet so thoughtfully provided by
Monsieur Bienville they would have been obliged to start out ill
provided.
 IV
Although the log-cabin was far different from the old chateau, and
the garden planted with indigo and young sugar-canes a great
contrast to the rose garden with its sun-dial at Étaples, the young
couple were not unhappy, and little Annette grew apace.
The only person who took the change sadly to heart was old Marie,
and her love for her mistress and the little one was all that kept her
alive.
The fertile soil, so rich on the shores of the Bayou that it was fairly
black, was soon heavily planted. There were rice fields in addition to
those of indigo and sugar-cane, and for the home were planted
watermelons, potatoes, peas, and beans; figs and bananas as well as
pumpkins were abundant, and there were wild grapes and pecans to
be had for the gathering.
With a gun the larder could be kept supplied with ducks, geese,
wild swan, venison, pheasants, and partridges, and, most curious of
all, wild beef, for unbranded cattle were considered common
property, and many of them escaped from the ranges and roamed the
forests in increasing companies.
The second year the plantation showed the results of Monsieur
Valvier’s unceasing care, and he carried to New Orleans a crop of
indigo seed which exceeded by many bushels his greatest hopes.
As the slaves pushed off from the landing, Pierre, standing in the
stern of the boat, called out,—
“What shall I bring thee back, Clemence?”
“Whatever you think I shall like best,” she answered, waving her
hand in farewell.
“What for the little daughter?” and as if she had only been waiting
for the chance, Annette called out gaily,—
“Dolly.”
“How shall I get a dolly? Would you not rather have something
else, a toy or a new frock?”
 “No, papa, a dolly”; and Annette pressed in her arms the bit of
stick enveloped in a piece of gay calico which served her as a
substitute for the dearest of all toys.
Two days later, when the little girl was helping her mother to
gather the wax berries from the twigs, so that the yearly supply of
candles might be made, they heard from the Bayou the cheerful song
of the negroes as they rowed homeward.
“Come, mamma, oh, come and see my dolly”; and Annette ran
away, while her mother followed more slowly, talking to old Marie,
who was carrying in her arms a young Pierre, Annette’s little brother,
who had been born since they had lived in the new home.
With a pleased face Monsieur Valvier leaped ashore, hardly
waiting for the boat to reach the landing. In his arms he held two
parcels carefully wrapped in silver paper.
“Now, mamma shall guess first what is in her parcel,” he said; but
Annette could not wait for that, and stood close at his side, saying
over softly to herself,—
“My dolly, my pretty, pretty dolly.”
“Give Annette hers first,” said Madame Valvier; “it will take me
much time to guess what my parcel contains.”
Annette sat soberly down and brought forth from many wrappings
a beautiful doll, with red cheeks and blue eyes, dressed like a court
lady, and newly come from France, as her father explained.
“She is most too beautiful to love,” exclaimed the little girl, as she
gently held the gay lady; and the father and mother could only smile
at the serious face of the child as she regarded the doll she had so
fondly desired.
“Now look at your gift, dear wife. I hope it will please you as much
as Annette’s pleases her”; and Monsieur Valvier put into his wife’s
hands the second packet. With almost as much excitement as
Annette, her mother unrolled her gift, and exclaimed with pleasure
at the length of shining silk which greeted her delighted eyes.
“Oh, but, Pierre,” she began; but he stopped her with,—
“Yes, I know what you would say, silks and a log-cabin. But I have
good news. The indigo seed brought such a high price that I have
bought all that was needful for a house, and already it is loaded on
barges and on its way hither.”
“Good news, indeed, that is. Marie, did you hear that we are to
have a house at last? Who knows, perhaps it may be ready for the
little Pierre’s christening.”
The parish in which lay the Valviers’ plantation also contained the
homes of several other planters. These were either earlier settlers or
blessed with greater riches than the Valviers, and their plantations
were dignified with dwellings which seemed commodious enough in
those days, simple as they would appear in our eyes now.
The planters’ homes were often built in what was called the
“Italian style,” with pillars supporting the galleries, which were in
reality roomy piazzas. The houses were surrounded by gardens of
gorgeous flowering plants, and approached by avenues of wild
orange trees.
It was such a house which soon rose on the bank of the Bayou
Gentilly, among the trees which flourished in that teeming soil, and
the rude cabin was moved into the background to serve as the
quarters for the slaves. Nor were there gaieties wanting, for the
planters visited among their neighbours, the ladies coming in huge
lumbering coaches drawn by many horses, or by pirogue, while the
men almost always rode, the saddle-horse for the master being
almost a necessity.
The succeeding years passed quickly, if not too prosperously, and
tobacco was added to the productions of the Valvier plantation.
Pierre had made himself honoured and respected among the men in
his own and the neighbouring parishes, and his ardent love for
France kept him ever a Frenchman, even though his home lay across
the sea.
Annette was by this time eight years old, quite a little mother, as
Clemence fondly called her, since, grave beyond her years, she
looked out for the little brothers and sister who had been born at the
Bayou Gentilly. Poor Marie had died, a victim to an attack of the
fever which hangs like a dark pall over that enchanting region, and
more care had fallen on the shoulders of little Annette than really
belonged there. She saw not only to the welfare of the children, but
ruled the blacks and looked after the house in a fashion which
astonished her mother, whose health had sadly failed, and upon
whose natural energy the relaxing climate had laid its enervating
spell. The French thrift which is so marked a quality in the women of
that nation seemed to have passed by the mother and bloomed in the
nature of the daughter, and Annette’s efforts were all which kept the
home from being better than a cabin, left to the mercies of the
negligent slaves.
 V
There was one thing for which Annette’s mother never lacked
strength or energy, and that was the celebration of the birthdays
—“fête days,” she called them—of the little family. There was always
some little gift forthcoming, were it only a basket of fine figs or a
garland of flowers; and for Annette particularly her mother always
made an extra effort.
The birthday of the little girl fell in June, that month when all the
world is dressed in flowers, and when the sky above seems to bend
its bluest arch. On this occasion Annette was to have a party, her very
first, and all the children from the neighbouring plantations had
been bidden; and papa had made a special trip to New Orleans and
come home with some wonderful and mysterious packages, which
had been quickly hidden away. At last the day arrived, and Annette
felt it to be the happiest one she had ever known.
“To be nine years old and to have a party! Just think of that,
Auguste!” she cried, as she helped the little boy to dress.
Auguste was thinking of it with so much glee that it made the
dressing of him more than usually difficult, and Annette turned to
little Pierre; but his whole attention was given to “keeping a secret,”
for mamma had said that Annette was not to know what her present
was to be till they were all gathered at the table for breakfast.
But he knew, did little Pierre, and it was a hard burden not to tell
sister Annette. At last the little ones were ready, and Annette had
seen that the simple fare which formed the breakfast—fruit and
hominy, with coffee for the father and mother—was on the table.
Such a clamour as arose.
“Oh, mother, let me tell.”
“No, let me.”
“Oh, sister Annette—” But they got no further, for Annette herself
pulled the cover off a big box which was laid on her chair, and there
within lay a white dress—oh, such a pretty one!—and a little pair of
slippers, with long, narrow ribbons to lace them criss-cross about the
ankles, and, most lovely of all, a long blue sash, which had on its two
ends a fringe of gold.
“Oh, dearest mother,” cried Annette, “was there ever anything so
lovely; and the little brodequins,” pointing to the little slippers, “and
a fan! Oh, mother, and you, too, father, how can I thank you both
enough?”
Her father kissed her fondly and said,—
“My little daughter repays me every day.”
The mother was well contented with Annette’s pleasure for all the
pains she had taken.
“And, sister Annette, see, I gave you the fan.”
“And oh, sister, look at the pretty mouchoir; that is from me.”
And the happy Annette kissed and thanked, and they were all so
pleased that breakfast was quite forgotten and would have grown
cold if black Mimi had not put her head in at the door to remind
them of it.
When Annette had put on the new birthday dress, laced the
slippers around her slender ankles, and held the fan and kerchief,
she ran into her mother’s room to show her the effect.
“See, mamma, it just fits me”; and she gave the small skirts a toss
and a pat, while her mother turned from the table where she had
been standing with a small casket in her hand.
“Dearest Annette,” said she, in quite a solemn voice, “I shall let you
wear to-day what my father gave to me, saying that one day it was to
be thine. When you are grown to be a big girl, it shall be yours to
have always, but to-day you shall wear it because you are my good
child, and I love you fondly.”
As Madame Valvier spoke, she clasped about Annette’s neck the
pearl necklace, the only remnant of the packet of jewels which had
come from France, and which had been drawn on when crops failed,
or for the purchase of slaves, or for some of the many needs in a new
country where money is scarce.
“Oh, mamma!” and Annette’s voice was low with pleasure as she
gently touched the rows of shining pearls which seemed far too costly
a jewel for the neck of a little girl, and quite out of place over the
modest frock.
 “Are these really for me some day? Did grandpère say it should be
so?” and Annette listened while her mother told her of her
grandfather’s injunction, and how old Marie had hidden them in
Annette’s own clothes and saved them from the highwaymen.
The time passed quickly before the little guests began to arrive, for
it was to be an afternoon party, and some were brought by boat on
the Bayou, while others rode on pillions behind black Philippe or
Jean, as the case might be, sitting very still so that the best frocks
would not be rumpled.
Many games they played in the long, cool galleries, or on the grass
before the house. Ball was one of them, and when they were tired of
this they played at hide-and-seek, finding many good and secret
nooks among the trees and wax-myrtle shrubs, which were so bushy
and so green.
“What shall we play next?” asked Annette, anxious that her guests
should have a good time, and some one suggested “Hugh, Sweet
Hugh,” that game of many verses which has been played by high and
low through so many centuries and in all countries.
The children made a pretty sight as, circling in a ring, they sang
merrily,—
“Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,
Come up and get the ball.”
“I will not come, I may not come,
Without my bonny boys all.”

Even after the tragic death of Sweet Hugh their voices rang out
clearly till the last verse,—
“And all the bells of merry France
Without men’s hands were rung;
And all the books of merry France
Were read without men’s tongue.
Never was such a burial
Since Adam’s days begun.”

Then, half frightened at their own game, they scampered into the
house, where Madame Valvier was awaiting them, and where, spread
on trestle-boards, were all the dainties so loved of children,—fresh
figs with cream, sweet chocolate, little cakes made of nuts and honey,