The arrival of Compere Martin was welcomed by a legion of women, children,
and mongrel curs; and, as poverty and gayety generally go hand in hand
among the French and their descendants, the crazy mansion soon resounded
with loud gossip and light-hearted laughter.
As the steamboat paused a short time at the village, I took occasion to
stroll about the place. Most of the houses were in the French taste, with
casements and rickety verandas, but most of them in flimsy and ruinous
condition. All the wagons, plows, and other utensils about the place were
of ancient and inconvenient Gallic construction, such as had been brought
from France in the primitive days of the colony. The very looks of the
people reminded me of the villages of France.
From one of the houses came the hum of a spinning wheel, accompanied by a
scrap of an old French chanson, which I have heard many a time among the
peasantry of Languedoc, doubtless a traditional song, brought over by the
first French emigrants, and handed down from generation to generation.
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