Acadiensis/Volume 1/Number 1/Thirst in Acadia
Thirst in Acadia.
There were two of us, arid we were at the commencement of a journey of one hundred and thirty miles or so, from Grand Falls on the River Saint John to Rivière du Loup on the Saint Lawrence. All our luggage, except such as we could carry upon our backs, had been forwarded by rail, and we proposed to walk the distance indicated. It was the last of May, but the heat was intense for the season, and we did not make more than sixteen or seventeen miles on the first day of our tramp. Yet, after all, it was a nice way of preparing for the heavier work before us: to lie, as we did, during the hottest hours, under the shade of trees, stretched on the soft moss, with bared feet occasionally plunged into a running brook, out of reach of duns and book agents, newspapers, politics, and the count less bothers of city life. But this state of sylvan beatitude could not last forever, and at last we were on the road again and, seeing a dwelling before us, it occurred to us to stop there for a drink of milk, as we knew of no accessible inn and both hunger arid thirst began to assert themselves.
It was a low-built cottage, nicely painted, with the neatest of surroundings. It stood on the side of a hill, facing the river, which ran parallel with the road. On the riverside some women were washing clothes or linen, and two youg fellows were plowing in the adjacent field. A barking cur seemed to resent our visit, but was not overconfident that he would escape a kick if he came too close to our heels. The open door exposed to view a large room, about half the width of the building and extending its full length, sheathed with wood painted of an orange red, which gleamed brightly in the glow of the afternoon. Light was admitted, through casement windows with diamond-shaped panes. The apartment was scrupulously clean, and comfortably and neatly furnished. There was but one occupant of the room, a white-headed man of about seventy years of age, dressed with neatness and as much taste as a man can display in the selection of trousers, waistcoat and neckerchief. He sat in the sunniest corner in a rocking chair, a favorite piece of furniture with the Acadians, and had the air of one appreciative of his possessions and surroundings.
It was a foreign picture but a pleasant one to look upon, and worth a journey of moderate length. "A contented mind is a continual feast" and, amid the complaining of hard times and of lots cast in melancholy places, it does one good to discover a fellow-mortal who finds no occasion for grumbling. At least a good example is set before us and, even though we cannot fully share the feast, we can imitate the city arabs who flatten their noses against the windows, watch the servants carrying the dishes, and perhaps sniff occasionally appetizing odors borne by the vagrant air.
We hesitated to break the spell, partly because we felt its influence, but chiefly because we doubted our capability to make our request known in a foreign language. But when we made the attempt, the old gentleman helped us corrected our feeble imitation of Parisian into admirable Madawaskan, and then translated this into a kind of Volapuk English, and got his wife, who was in the kitchen, to bring the milk. There was an attractive feature about this as well as most of the other milk supplied to us upon the route, namely that it never appeared divested of its cream. As we had no reason to suppose that the unskimmed pan was produced in every instance as a compliment to ourselves, and as the separation of cream from milk does not call for any great expenditure of mental or physical energy, it was not easy to account for this. To the city man, however, used to that kind of milk which is rather limpid in quality and cerulean in color, the usual custom of skimming is more honored in the breach than the observance, and so we made no protest.
Having satisfied our thirst, we attempted in French to negotiate with our Acadian for the payment of our draught, but absolutely without success. Then one of us, after the manner of English-speaking people trying to converse with a foreigner who fails to recognize what they suppose to be his language, asked very slowly and very emphatically, "Will you take anything?" "Oui!" he replied with the utmost promptness, "a leetle sometime." There was no misunderstanding this. But was it not surprising, if not sad, that the Arcadian Acadian living in Maine, not in New Brunswick, subject to a prohibitory law, generally ignorant of English idioms, should understand the question just as if it was propounded in an English bar-room? Under the circumstance there was no alternative but to produce our small flask, as yet untouched, intended to be used only in case of emergency in a district where spirits, although generally to be procured, are not of a quality to be desired or approved. We restrained our feelings, as our ideal peasant swallowed neat one-half our little stock. But it was almost unendurable when he called our precious brandy "bon whiskey," and then insisted that Marie, his wife, should also have some because she was not well.