_March 5th._
... The streets are so narrow in this old-fashioned quarter that even a
whisper is audible across them; and after dark I hear a great many
things,--sometimes sounds of pain, sobbing, despairing cries as Death
makes his nightly round,--sometimes, again, angry words, and laughter,
and even song,--always one melancholy chant: the voice has that peculiar
metallic timbre that reveals the young negress:--
"_Paw' ti Lélé,
Paw' ti Lélé!
Li gagnin doulè, doulè, doulè,--
Li gagnin doulè
Tout-pàtout!_"
I want to know who little Lélé was, and why she had pains "all
over";--for however artless and childish these creole songs seem, they
are invariably originated by some real incident. And at last somebody
tells me that "poor little Lélé" had the reputation in other years of
being the most unlucky girl in St. Pierre; whatever she tried to do
resulted only in misfortune;--when it was morning she wished it were
evening, that she might sleep and forget; but when the night came she
could not sleep for thinking of the trouble she had had during the day,
so that she wished it were morning....
More pleasant it is to hear the chatting of Yzore's children across the
way, after the sun has set, and the stars come out.... Gabrielle always
wants to know what the stars are:--
--"_Ça qui ka clairé conm, ça, manman?_" (What is it that shines like
that?)