ANTOINE LEBRINN
"Tell you a bear story, Beely? No, I'm too scare to tell you a bear
story," Aunt Florence heard Antoine remark. "I tole you dog story, hey?
How you scare you old friend Antoine with you big dog. That was a bad
trick, Beely. You do wrong to scare ole Antoine."
So earnestly did the Frenchman say this, as he held Billy on his knee,
the small boy felt uncomfortable, though Aunt Florence laughed, and
wondered how and when to begin her lecture.
"But, Antoine," Billy explained, "that was a game."
"A game, Beely, you call that game, do you, when you scare ole Antoine
out his wit? Game, hey?"
[Illustration]
"I knew Hero wouldn't hurt you, Antoine; he's a nice, kind dog, and he
wouldn't bite a mosquito."
Antoine shook his head and made a downward motion with his hands.
"That's all right for you, Beely, but how did Antoine know the dog
she wouldn't bite one moskeet? When I see his mouth, I say to myself,
Antoine, he swallow you sure, and then I call my friend Beely."
"But I was a steamboat then," protested Billy, "and, anyway, I came
after you, didn't I?"
"Yes, Beely, I find you out in the wood some day, big black bear after
you. Beely call ole Antoine, and ole Antoine he play steamboat, hey,
Beely? How you like that?"
"Tell us a bear story, please do," persisted the child.
"No, Beely, maybe I tole you bear story, maybe so, but that big dog he
scare me. Now, I'm scare out of bear story."
"Poor old Hero, he wants to come in," said Billy. "Shall I let him come
in and get acquainted with you, Antoine?"
"No, Beely, I'm too much acquaint with him now. You call your dog, I
go."
"But he likes you, Antoine; I could tell by the way he sniffs at you
that he likes you."
"Yes, maybe he likes me too much, I'm think. I'll bring my gun next
time," warned Antoine; "then let him sniff at me, hey, Beely?"
"You wouldn't shoot him."
"I wouldn't stand still and let him eat me, I tell you that, Beely.
When you see Antoine coming, you better call your dog and hide him."
"Give it to him, Antoine," said Gerald, with a brotherly grin.
Billy said nothing, but, with his back turned toward Aunt Florence, he
made a face at Gerald.
"Well, Beely," protested the Frenchman, "that's a pretty crooked face
you make there. Let me look on that face. She's round like the pumpkin,
and your eye she's like two little blue bead. Well, I can't see nothing
wrong with it now. A minute ago I'm 'fraid. You must not make such face
like that on your brother, because, Beely, I'm afraid she freeze like
that."
"But where have you been all this time?" questioned Betty, while Gerald
motioned Aunt Florence to watch the grimaces and motions Antoine made
as he talked.
"Oh, I'm work back here on the cedar swamp, getting out some pole to
load big vesseal when he come. Where's your papa? I want to see if he's
hear anything of the _George Sturgis_. I'm think he's come last week,
and I'm look for it ever since. He was going to come last week to Cecil
Bay to get my pole to take to Chicago. I'm 'fraid we's going to get bad
weather, and I want to get out my load of pole quick as I could."
"You'll have to wait, Antoine," declared Gerald, "because papa went to
the station with some messages, and he's going to wait for the mail,
and the train's late."
"Don't you want to see our baby?" asked Betty. "Oh, he is the dearest
little fellow, just three months old. Mamma says he looks exactly as
Billy did when he was a baby."
"Beely ain't baby no more," commented the Frenchman. "I s'pose he ain't
like the new baby pretty good?"
"Oh, yes," Betty assured Antoine, "Billy loves the baby."
"And I'm seven, going on eight," the small boy declared. "It seems a
hundred years since you were here last," he continued; "have you been
working in the cedar swamp all that time?"
"Well," was the reply, "I'm think if you be there when the black fly
and the moskeet eat you up, you would say it was one hundred year sure.
You say your papa she go to the post-office, hey?"
"Yes, and the train is late. If I was an engine, I'd get here on time,
and not keep folks waiting for their mail."
Antoine LeBrinn made a remarkably bad grimace, looked at Billy for
several seconds, and then replied: "Little boy ain't got no patience
these day. Now, when I'm a little boy and live on Cadotte's Point, we
only got our mail two time in one week."
"But that was before the railroads came," said Betty, "and I don't see
how you got any mail at all. Did it come in canoes?"
Antoine shrugged his shoulders. "No, Betty, the dog she bring our mail
in those day."
"Dogs!" exclaimed Billy. He was sure there was a story coming.
"What do you mean?" inquired Gerald, seating himself in Billy's rocker,
while Betty drew her footstool close beside him. "Antoine, what do you
mean?"
"Just what I'm say. Dog, she bring our mail in the old day. Did you
never hear of a traineau?"
"Yes," admitted Betty. "I have read of traineaus, but I never expected
to see any one who ever saw one. Do tell me all about them."
"Well," began the Frenchman, making all sorts of motions with his
head and his hands as he went on, "well, when I'm little boy and this
was call Old Mackinaw Point, there was no train and no steamboat, and
in the winter-time all our mail was brought by these dog I am tell
you about. These dog she was train with the harness and haul a long
sleigh call a traineau. I know a little chap," and Billy had to give
a hard kick at somebody who pinched his toes, "I know one little chap
that hitch up one dog to her sled and take a ride on all kinds of
weather. Well, well, what's the matter with Beely? She jump around like
something bite him."
"Go on, Antoine, go on, tell us about the dogs," teased Billy.
"Gerald's always acting horrid."
"Well," resumed the Frenchman, "a traineau was pulled by six dog; all
had harness on, and hitch one in front the other on one long string.
The traineau she's all pile full of mailbag, and one man go along to
drive the dog. This driver she go three, four hundred mile on one trip,
and she would carry enough along to eat to last him and his dog four or
five day."
At this point Billy became much excited, and broke in with a remark
that amused Gerald so highly he stood on his head and waved his feet in
the air until Betty reminded him of his manners.
"Why, why, Antoine," Billy demanded, "how could the driver carry stones
enough to last even one hundred miles, I'd like to know?"
The Frenchman was puzzled. "Stone," he remarked, running his fingers
through his short, black hair, "now what, Beely, would the driver do
with stone?"
Betty clapped her hands. "When Billy goes driving on the ice with
Major," she explained, "he has to carry a pocket full of stones, or
Major wouldn't go a step. He throws a stone and Major goes after it;
then he throws another, and that's the way he keeps the dog flying."
"Well, that's pretty good," said the smiling Antoine, "but you see,
Beely, these dog she was train to pull the sleigh when she was a little
bit of a pup. He was train so he was used to it. When the driver said
'Go,' she went; and at first, no matter how much mail they have, the
dog she would jump and run as if they like it. After they draw a bit
load two or three day, she's begin get tired, and then they would lay
right down on the road, so the driver would stop and let the dog rest.
"Here, on Mackinaw Point, the driver she stop at the little store and
left the mail for all the folks; for the fishermen along the shore and
on Cadotte's Point where I'm live."
"But where did the traineaus start and where did they go?" inquired
Betty.
"They come from Alpena and go way up to the Soo, and then go back
again."
"Why didn't they use big sleighs and horses?" Gerald put in.
"No road," was the reply, "only narrow trail through the wood."
"And was all the mail from the big world brought to Mackinaw that way
when you were a little boy?" persisted Betty; "and did you ever get a
letter?"
"No, I can't say I ever got one letter myself. Little children ain't
much account those day, but my aunt what live on Canada send me one
pair mitten for a New Year present. I'm just about big like Beely then,
but I'm walk in all alone from Cadotte's Point."
"And you must have seen a bear," observed Billy.
"Oh, now, you Beely, you think I'm going to tell you a bear story. Well
I ain't feel just right for tole you a bear story this time. I'm tell
that some other time. I'm tell you a bear story every time I'm see you,
Beely, and I'm getting them pretty near all wear out."
At this the children laughed so uproariously, the baby awoke and began
to cry.
"Mamma'll bring him out in a minute," remarked Betty, and when the
baby, still screaming, was brought into the room, Antoine insisted
upon taking him, to the delight of the children, who stood by, softly
clapping their hands and laughing. Their mother laughed, too, when
Antoine, who knew something about babies from long experience, began
walking the floor with the little fellow and talking to him.
"Well, is this the new baby? Bring it here and let me look at it. Well,
a pretty nice looking baby, I'm think, if she ain't cry so much. Her
face is all crooked and all wrinkle up. Come now, you ain't going to
cry all the time. I'm going to look and see them little eye you got
there. Well, she make quite a bit of noise for her size, but I'm going
to sing him a little song and see if she won't go to sleep again:
"'The Frenchman he hate to die in the fall,
When the marsh is full of game:
For the muskrat he is good and fat,
And the bullfrog just the same.
"'High le,
High low,
Now baby don't you cry,
For ole Antoine is right close by.'"
"Now you see, Beely, she's quit crying already. You ain't know Antoine
can sing, eh?"
It was even as Antoine said; the baby had stopped crying, and Billy,
astonished by the music of the Frenchman's voice, begged for another
song, insisting that anything would please him.
"Oh, no, Beely," objected his friend. "I ain't going to sing no more to
the baby, she's quiet now. I'm goin to tole you a story."
"Is it a bear story?"
"No, it's a cow story. My cow she's run away once, and I'm find it
on Wheeler's farm." Thus began Antoine, accompanying his words with
gestures far more laughable than the tale he told, and causing the
children great amusement. Billy's round face became one broad grin as
he listened.
"When I'm take my cow home," went on the little Frenchman, still
walking the floor with the baby in his arms, "I'm take short cut on
the wood; I'm go by old log road. There was a lot of raspberry there,
so now I'm to pick up some raspberry for myself. So I'm tie my cow on
black stick of wood, and let it eat grass on the road and drag the
wood along, and she can't get away from me."
At this point Betty's mother rescued the baby from the arms of the
prancing Frenchman, to the evident relief of Betty, who thought the
baby too precious a bundle to be flourished so vigorously, as Antoine
stooped to pick raspberries and to tie his cow.
"Pretty soon," continued the narrator, "pretty soon she give a jerk
with his head, and the piece of wood jump toward it and scare my cow.
Well, she start to run down the road, and I'm run after it and holler,
'Whoa, Bess, whoa!' but she's so scare she ain't stop.
"By and by my cow stop, all play out." Antoine placed himself before
Betty, who was sitting on a footstool near Aunt Florence, while Gerald
and Billy were standing near their mother's chair, the refuge they
sought when Antoine was running after his cow. "Well, as I'm say, my
cow stop all play out. She stand right there on front that stick of
wood." Antoine certainly mistook Betty for the stick of wood. "She's
stand there and look straight at it, and she's go, 'Woof! woof! woof!'
and his tail she's go round and round," and Antoine's arms made wide
circles in the air, "but she's all right; she ain't hurt at all, so I'm
catch my cow and take it home, and I'm pretty glad she ain't hurt at
all. Now I ain't tie my cow to no more black stick of wood. I told you
that right now."
In the midst of the laugh that followed, and while Billy was pulling
at the Frenchman's sleeve, beseeching him to tell another story, the
marine reporter came home. Immediately Antoine told his errand, and
made his escape from the presence of the clamouring children, laughing,
shrugging his shoulders, and declaring that he would sometime tell
them all the stories they would listen to. Thus Aunt Florence lost an
opportunity to deliver her first temperance lecture.
Scarcely had the door closed behind Antoine when it was opened by
Billy, who followed his friend into the yard.
"Here, Antoine," he called, "take this orange to 'Phonse. Mamma gave me
one, and Betty one, and Gerald one."
"It's a good little Beely," was the remark that filled the small boy's
heart with pride, as Antoine slipped the treasure in his pocket.