Ogilvy, Maud / 2008-06-11 00:00:00
Through a half-opened door could be seen a glimpse of madame's bedroom--a
dainty interior. The wooden floor was snowy white, with here and there a
bright-colored mat spread on it; the brown roughly-hewn bedstead was
covered with a quilt of palest pink and blue patchwork, the patient
result of the old lady's years of industrious toil.
Madame McAllister busied herself getting supper ready, all the while
talking to her son.
"Well, Noel, my son, what did you get this time? I trust a great
quantity."
"Yes, my mother, we did very well. The first day we captured a fine
porpoise, and after that six large seals."
"Ah! that was good," replied madame.
Both mother and son spoke French in the Lower Canadian _patois_, rather
puzzling to English ears trained to understand only Parisian French. For,
not only is the pronunciation different, but several Scotch words are
used by the inhabitants of this district, and one puzzles hopelessly over
their derivation, until remembering the origin of the people.
"Where did you leave your boat?" questioned madame.
"At Father Point light-house with Jean Gourdon.
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