Willmar tribune. [volume] (Willmar, Minn.) 1895-1931, 1903-11-04

| pointing southwark, 1T is going to
| bring on a storm. How is Nine. Rous-
sillon today?"
"She is complaining as she usually
does when she feels extremely WE'LL"
said Alice. ''That's why I lSld to take
her place at the oven and bake PIES. I
got hot and came out to catch a bit of
this breeze. oh, but you needn't smile
and look greedy, Pere Beret, the pies
are not for your teeth!'
MY daughter, am not a glutton, I
hope. had meat not two hours since
some broiled young squirrels with
cress, sent me by Rene de Ronville. He
never fprgets his old father"
"Oh, l never forget you either, mon
pere. 1 thought Of you today every
time spread a crust and filled it with
| cherries, and when took out pie, all
brown and hot, the red juice bubbling
out Of it so good smelling and tempting,
| do you know what said to myself?"
"How could know, my child?"
swell, l thought this: Not a single
bite of that pie does Father Beret get I"
"Why so, my daughter?'
because you said it was bad Of me
to read novels, and told Mother Rous-
sillon to hide them from me. I've had
| any amount of trouble about it,"
''Ta, ta! Read the good books that l
gave you. They will soon kill the taste
for these silly romances."
Il tried," said Alice. II tried very
hard, and it's no use. Your books are
dull and stupidity heavy. What do
care about something that a queer lot
Of saints did hundreds of years ago in
times of plague and famine? Saints
must have been poky people, and it is
poky people who care to read about
them, l think. I like reading about
brave, heroic men and beautiful wom-
en-, and war and love-"
Pere Beret looked away with a curl
Gus expression in his face, his eyes half
closed.
"And I'll tell you now, Father Beret,"
Alice went on after pause, mo more
claret and pies do you get until can
have my own sort Of books back again
to read as please" She stamped her
moccasin shod foot with decided en-
ergy.
The good priest broke into hearty
laugh, and, taking off his cap Of grass
straw, mechanically scratched his bald
head.
Although, as Father Beret had said,
the suns heat was violent, causing
that gentle soul to pass his bundled
handkerchief with wiping circular
motion over his bald and believed
pate, the wind was momently freshen-
Ing, while up from behind the trees on
the horizon beyond the river cloud
was rising blue black, tumbled and
grim against the sky.
'Well," said the priest, evidently try
ing hard to exchange his laugh for a
look Of regretful resignation, you will
have your own way, my child, and"-
'"Then you will have pies galore and
no end Of claret!' she interrupted, at
the same time stepping to the withe
tied and peg latched gate Of the yard
and opening it. Come in, you dear,
good father, before the rain shall be-
gin, and sit with me on the gallery"
(the creole word for veranda) till
the storm Is over"
There was not photographers
camera to be had in those days, but
what if tourist with one in hand
could have been there to take snap
shot at the priest and the maiden as
they walked arm in arm to that squat
little veranda! The picture today
would be worth it's weight in a first
water diamond. It would include the
cabin, the cherry tree, a glimpse Of
the raw, wild background and sharp
portrait group Of Pere Beret, Alice and
Jean the hunchback. Each of us can
see them, even with closed eyes. Led
by that wonderful guide, Imagination,
we step back century and more to
look over scene at once strangely at
tractive and unspeakably forlorn.
What was it that drew people away
from the old countries, from the cities,
the villages and the vineyards of beau
tiful France, for example, to dwell in
the wilderness, amid wild beasts and
wilder savage Indians, with a rude
cabin for home and the exposures
and hardships Of pioneer life for their
daily experience?
Men like Gaspard Roussillon are of
distinct stamp. Take him as he was.
Born in France, on the banks of the
Rhone near Avignon, he came as a
youth to Canada, whence he drifted on
the tide Of adventure this way and
that, until at last he found himself,
with wife, at Post Vincennes, that
lonely picket Of religion and trade
which was to become the center of CIV
ilizing energy for the great northwest
ern territory. NJ. Roussillon had no
children Of his own; so his kind heart
opened freely to two fatherless and
motherless waits. These We're Alice,
now called ROussillon, and the hunch-
back, Jean. The former was twelve
years old when he adopted her, a child
Of Protestant parents, while Jean had
been taken, when a mere babe, after
his parents had been killed and scalped
by Indians. Nine. Roussillon, a profess
iional invalid, whose appetite never
failed and whose motherly kindness ex-