One still, cold morning in November our boat was prepared and we started
to Manistique, ten miles distant. Charley and I were again placed in
among warm blankets. Our little puppies of the springtime had grown to
be great, large dogs and watched over little brother and me like two
faithful sentinels. The day was cold and still. Father and the boys
rowed while mother steered. We kept close to the shore. Little brother
and I were half asleep most of the time. I can hear my father even now
singing his old hymns, "Rock of Ages" and the "Evergreen Shore". Many
times I imagine I can hear the sweet music of his voice. Mother, too,
sang her French glee songs, the boys joining with her. French was our
mother's language. Father could not speak it, but understood nearly
everything. French and Indian were the languages spoken by almost
everybody in those days around the western islands and shores. The men
that came from eastern homes soon learned to speak the language of both
French and Indian as it was necessary to carry on their trade.