Wolf Breed | Page 2

l'an" had come to them. Then, and with much
frolicking and wine and music, would their new year begin.
"It is our anniversary, m'sieu'," he would say with an air of vast
confidence to the first man he met upon the street. "To-night we keep
open house here." He would wave his hand toward the long, low log
building, clay chinked. "We will be proud of your presence and that of
your frien's."
It had been remarked that the anniversary had come one year upon the
twenty-sixth of May, another year as late as the last of June. Père
Marquette had laughed softly and had shaken his head. "What matter?"

he had demanded. "I, I marry myself with my beloved Mam'selle
Jeanne the first fine day of spring. Voilà."
The central door of the Marquette house, broadest and heaviest and
most conspicuous both from its position in the middle of its valiant line
of brothers, had been closed and barred since last night. It gave
entrance to the store; here behind his long counter, peering over boxes
neatly piled or between great heaps of bacon and tobacco and men's
clothing, Père Marquette looked out upon the world some three
hundred and sixty-four days of the ordinary year. But upon the first day
of spring it was closed and locked until noon. If a man needed plug cut
for his pipe, why then let him borrow from his friend or steal from his
enemy; it was no concern of Père Marquette. If a woman required flour
for her baking let her do without; it would serve her right for having
failed to remember the great day. . . . Then at high noon, not measured
by any ticking clock in the Settlement, the matter being decided by
Père Marquette and the sun alone, the middle door was flung open. The
old man, dressed in his best black suit, his newest skull cap set like a
crown upon his head, stood at one side of the entrance, gravely
courteous, his black eyes twinkling, twin withered roses in his old
cheeks. Mère Jeanne, silver buckles on her shoes, her ample form
surrounded almost but not quite by a great white, stiff-starched apron, a
bouquet of flowers in one hand, took her place at the other side. And
then the guests began to arrive.
You could list the men, women, children and four footed live stock of
MacLeod's Settlement upon a printed page and still have room left for a
brief biography of each. They all came, all dressed in their best holiday
raiment, all happy and eager for the celebration. From far down the
Little MacLeod river men trod the slushy trails, rough fellows for the
most part and silent, but with a tongue in each head to propose a toast
to host and hostess. From over the ridge, from French Valley, from as
far east as St. Croix and as far west as Dunvegan's Post, the guests
trooped in. Miners, trappers, little stock men; scions of old French
families with grand names, descendants of younger English sons with
riotous blood, Americans who had crossed the border with much haste
and scant baggage; many men whom the world had outlawed and

whom the North Woods had accepted as empire builders; men of pure
blood knocking elbows with swarthy "breeds," oddly alike in the
matters of keenly alert eyes and magnificent bodies.
As they filed through the Frenchman's door they entered not the store at
all but what was Père Marquette's idea of a drawing room. The long
counters and shelves were there, but the barrels of pickled meat, the
piles of soap and tinned meats, the bags of flour, the stacks of men's
clothing, all this had been whisked away and out of sight as though by
magic. A strip of new red oilcloth upon one counter, a strip of blue
upon another, transformed both into auxiliary seats. Benches, recently
brought in from the rear storeroom by Père Marquette's man, Jules, and
freshly dusted by him, lined the walls. Even Mère Jeanne's bedroom
had been robbed of chairs; boxes dressed gaily in gingham or
perchance even flaunting remnants of chintz, were amply good enough
for the boys and girls.
"My frien', you do me the honour," said Père Marquette over and over
as some stranger upon whom his quick black eyes had never rested
until now accepted his hand and entered to be again welcomed by Mère
Jeanne. "You make mamma and me ver' happy."
Let the frontier push out as far and as fast as it pleases, the violin
always goes with it. Men march the more intrepidly to the scraping of
the skilful bow. There were two fiddles already going in the next room;
Père Marquette had seen to that. And in the