Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1875-11-11

WAS there ever child so awkward and
SO unlucky! Get along with thee, Jeanne,
and carry the pitcher steadily, or thou wilt
certainly break it TO pieces"
There is such a peculiar tone in the
voice, such a ring OF sadness in its utter
ance, that stand still and look round TO
find the speaker.
! had been walking beside the lovely
River Wire, with its tiny cascades foaming
over huge gray stones, bordered by dye
ing-houses with long stretches Of blue
cloth hanging on poles between the houses,
or soaking in tanks in front.
But the sun blazed fiercsly overhead,
and the glitter Of the bright, dancing river
tired my eyes. turned gladly into by
street on the left, which hoped would
take me homeward.
A very narrow, steep street, leading
down, felt sure, into the very heart OF
the charming town of Wire. On each side
of the wav were quaint houses, some built
of stone, with curious carving about the
dormer windows, others covered with
wooden tiles, laid one over another like
fish scales, moss-grown, blackened. and
uneven with age and decay.
One of these tiled houses on nv right
has bright blossoms of fuchsia and nastur-
tium showing through the clustering vine-
leaves that cling round its upper windows.
while lower down, Just above the shop
door. two or three lunches Of haricot
beans hang drying to an exquisite rosy
hue. There is one in the open shop-a
broker Sand glance across the way.
A tall girl of fifteen or so is coming out
Of side door; she stoops, and she has
large-boned, ungainly figure she is bare
headed, and her matted brown hair looks
rough and coarse. Clean. but very unat-
tractive in appearance, as she stumps
along with huge, shabby black sabots on
her stockingless feet.
She walks quickly on, looking ON, fixed
ly ON the ground, and holding great red
pitcher with both hands; but there is no
nmbleness in her gait; she moves one
large foot after another as it she found
them heavy to drag along.
"Ah. but she is malatlroit. Non Dieu!
what will become of the unhappy oner'
The harsh, sad voice came from so near
to me that l started. Close by the door
from which the girl had come was large
open window, and in the middle of the
square dark space revealed within sat an
old woman with very red and wrinkled
face; her little bleared eyes were no big
ger than a pigs; white stocking-cap
came down nearly to her hairless eye
brows; she had on n faded rusty-brown
gown, a lilac necKerchief over her shoul-
ders. She was sitting before spinning
wheel, but she was not spinning; she
looked at the wheel, but she held her dis
taft idly in one brown hand and supported
her chin with the other. The hands
showed little purple knots through the hard
brown skin.
looked up at the house. 1t was very
small and ruinous no clinging vine leaves
and CAV flowers masked the moldering
crooked beams and dirty, blackened hue
of the scaly front. The gable seemed
ready to topple over into the street, be.
low, and the lattice window was so in
crusted with cobwebs that it could not
have been opened for months.
looked again at the old woman; she
was rocking herself backward and for
ward, murmurng, as if in pain.
Bon jour, Madame" | said, rather TIM
idly, for the red face had a scowl on it.
and | knew how harsh the voice was.
She left off rocking, turned her head slow
ly, and fixed the little dull red eyes on
me.
1T is never bon jour to me p she said
harshly. You are not of Wire, that is
plain; every Viroise knows that l can
never have a good day"
There was again that sad, despairing
ring in her voice.
IL SIN very sorry / said, feeling gull
tv. .What is your trouble, my poor wom-
an ?"
"You say, My poor woman she
binked her little red eyes at me till felt
nervous as we'll as guilty; this was the
first uncivil Frenchwoman l had met with.
and also the first of her class who did not
address me as Madame-'and you say
you are sorry. l am poor indeed. You
are like all those who live in sunshine
you talk, and you do not know the mean
ing OF your words. How can you be sor-
rv? you have nothing to be sorry for! and.
mon Dieu! what do you know about me?"
tried to speak, but she went on with
almost fierce vehemence:
You have health, and strength, and
clothes, and plenty to eat; what do l
know, sitting here in this dark corner!
you have, perhaps, money. and husband
and children; mon Dieu what cause have
you to be sorry?' Her little eyes looked
very angry. and ugly too, as she strained
them upward to my face.
II mean am sorry for you.n said
this with the idea of making an ingenious
change of sense. and then became pain
fully conscious of failure. She actually
scowled at me. and, and turning away,
began to spin with foot and hand also
stood watching her. did not know
what to say next. A cloud of gnats that
had followed me from the river took ad-
vantage of the silence to sound shrill
chorus in my ears.
Presently three O'Clock chimed loudly
from the clock tower-the gross horloge
of Nire-and remembered that nv cousin
Jemima was waiting for me at the inn to
60 in search of the house of Olivier Bas-
selin. However, must satisfy my Curl
osity about this poor woman.
81 beg your pardon" said this very
meekly. "but take an interest in people
who suffer, and fear you have suffered
very much Is that young girl who has
just gone away with a pitcher your daugh-
terp"
She did not answer; she began to frown
again, and then large tears rolled over
her, wrinkled face; she tried to gulp il
tcoNTySUrD ON FOuRTH PAarl