R.V. Russell - "The Tribes and Castes of the Central Provinces of India Volume I (of IV)"

Roswell Field - "The Romance of an Old Fool"

Harriet S. Caswell - "Stories and Sketches"

Irene Elliott Benson - "How Ethel Hollister Became a Campfire Girl"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

A Little Girl in Old Detroit

A >> Amanda Minnie Douglas >> A Little Girl in Old Detroit




"I must go and tell Pani," and she was off like a bird.

Oh, what a glad day it was! The maypole and the dancing were as nothing
to it. After she had told over her news and they had partaken of a
simple meal, she dragged the Indian woman off to her favorite haunt in
the woods, where three great tree boles made a pretty shelter and where
Pani always fell asleep.

Bees were out buzzing, their curious accompaniment to their work. Or
were they scolding because flowers were not sweeter? Yellow butterflies
made a dazzle in the air, that was transparent to-day. The white birches
were scattering their last year's garments, and she gathered quite a
roll. Ah, what a wonderful thing it was to live and breathe this
fragrant air! It exhilarated her with joy as drinking wine might
another. The mighty spirit of nature penetrated every pulse.

From a little farther up she could see the blue waters, and the distant
horizon seemed to bound the lake. Would she ever visit the grand places
of the world? What was a great city such as Quebec like? Would she stay
here for years and years and grow old like Pani? For somehow she could
not fancy herself in a home with a husband like Marie Beeson, or Madelon
Freche, or several of the girls a little older than herself. The
commonplaces of life, the monotonous work, the continual admiration and
approval of one man who seemed in no way admirable would be slow death.

"Which is a warning that I must not get married," she thought, and her
gay laugh rippled under the trees in soft echoes.

She felt more certain of her resolve that evening when Pierre came.

"Where were you all the afternoon?" he said, almost crossly. "I was here
twice. I felt sure you would expect me."

Jeanne flushed guiltily. She knew she had gone to escape such an
infliction, and she was secretly glad, yet somehow her heart pricked
her.

"Oh, you surely have not forgotten that I live half the time in the
woods;" glancing up mischievously.

"Haven't you outgrown that? There was enough of it yesterday," he said.

"You ought not to complain. What a welcome you had, and what a triumph,
too!"

"Oh, that was not much. You should see the leaping and the wrestling up
north. And the great bounds with the pole! That's the thing when one has
a long journey. And the snowshoes--ah, that is the sport!"

"You liked it up there?"

"I was desperately homesick at first. I had half a mind to run away. But
when I once got really used to the people and the life--it was the
making of me, Jeanne."

He stretched up proudly and swelled up his broad chest, enjoying his
manhood.

"You will go back?" she asked, tentatively.

"Well--that depends. Father wants me to stay. He begins to see that I am
worth something. But pouf! how do people live in this crowded up town in
the winter! It is dirtier than ever. The Americans have not improved it
much. You see there is Rose and Angelique, before Baptiste, and he is
rather puny, and father is getting old. Then, I could go up north every
two or three years. Well, one finds out your worth when you go away."

He gave a loud, rather exultant laugh that jarred on Jeanne. Why were
these rough characteristics so repellant to her? She had lived with them
all her short life. From whence came the other side of her nature that
longed for refinement, cultivated speech, and manners? And people of
real education, not merely the business faculty, the figuring and
bargain making, were more to her taste. M. Fleury was a gentleman, like
M. St. Armand.

Pierre stretched out his long legs and crossed his feet, then slipped
his hands into his pockets. He seemed to take up half the room.

"What have you been doing all the time I was away?" he said, when the
awkwardness of the silence began to oppress him.

Jeanne made a little crease in her forehead, and a curl came to the rose
red lip.

"I went to school until Christmas, then there was no teacher for a
while. And when spring was coming I decided not to go back. I read at
home. I have some books, and I write to improve myself. I can do it
quite well in English. Then there is some one at the Fort, a sort of
minister, who has a class down in the town, St. Louis street, and I go
there."

"Is the minister a Catholic?"

"No," she answered, briefly.

"That is bad." He shook his head disapprovingly. "But you go to church?"

"There is a little chapel and I like the talk and the singing. I know
two girls who go there. Sometimes I go with Pani to St. Anne's."

"But you should go all the time, Jeanne. Religion is especially for
women. They have the children to bring up and to pray for their
husbands, when they are on voyages or in dangers."

Pierre delivered this with an unpleasant air of masculine authority
which Jeanne resented in her inmost soul. So she exclaimed rather
curtly:--

"We will not discuss religion, Monsieur Pierre."

The young man looked amazed. He gave the fringe on his deerskin legging
a sharp twitch.

"You are still briery, Mam'selle. And yet you are so beautiful that you
ought to be gentle as well."

"Why do people want to tell me that I am beautiful? Do they not suppose
I can see it?" Jeanne flung out, impatiently.

"Because it is a sweet thing to say what the speaker feels. And beauty
and goodness should go hand in hand."

"I am for myself alone;" she returned, proudly. "And if I do not suit
other people they may take the less of me. There are many pretty girls."

"Oh, Mam'selle," he exclaimed, beseechingly, "do not let us quarrel
immediately, when I have thought of you so often and longed to see you
so much! And now that my mother says pleasant things about you--she is
not so opposed to learning since Tony Beeson has been teaching Marie to
read and write and figure--and we are all such friends--"

Ah, if they could remain only friends! But Jeanne mistrusted the outcome
of it.

"Then tell me about the great North instead of talking foolishness; the
Straits and the wonderful land of snow beyond, and the beautiful
islands! I like to hear of countries. And, Pierre, far to the south
flowers bloom and fruit ripens all the year round, luscious things that
we know nothing about."

Pierre's descriptive faculties were not of a high order. Still when he
was once under way describing some of the skating and sledging matches
he did very well, and in this there was no dangerous ground.

The great bell at the Fort clanged out nine.

"It is time to go," Jeanne exclaimed, rising. "That is the signal. And
Pani has fallen asleep."

Pierre rose disconcerted. The bright face was merry and friendly, that
was all. Yesterday other girls had treated him with more real warmth and
pleasure. But there was a certain authority about her not to be
gainsaid.

"Good night, then," rather gruffly.

"He loves thee, _ma mie_. Hast thou no pity on him?" said Pani, looking
earnestly at the lovely face.

"I do not want to be loved;" and she gave a dissentient, shivering
motion. "It displeases me."

"But I am old. And when I am gone--"

The pathetic voice touched the girl and she put her arms around the
shrunken neck.

"I shall not let you go, ever. I shall try charms and get potions from
your nation. And then, M. St. Armand is to come. Let us go to bed. I
want to dream about him."

One of the pitiful mysteries never to be explained is why a man or a
woman should go on loving hopelessly. For Pierre De Ber had loved Jeanne
in boyhood, in spite of rebuffs; and there was a certain dogged tenacity
in his nature that fought against denial. A narrow idea, too, that a
girl must eventually see what was best for her, and in this he gained
Pani's sympathy and good will for his wooing.

He was not to be easily daunted. He had improved greatly and gained a
certain self-reliance that at once won him respect. A fine, tall fellow,
up in business methods, knowing much of the changes of the fur trade,
and with shrewdness enough to take advantage where it could be found
without absolute dishonesty, he was consulted by the more cautious
traders on many points.

"Thou hast a fine son," one and another would say to M. De Ber; and the
father was mightily gratified.

There were many pleasures for the young people. It was not all work in
their lives. Jeanne joined the parties; she liked the canoeing on the
river, the picnics to the small islands about, and the dances often
given moonlight evenings on the farms. For never was there a more
pleasure loving people with all their industry. And then, indeed, simple
gowns were good enough for most occasions.

Jeanne was ever on the watch not to be left alone with Pierre. Sometimes
she half suspected Pani of being in league with the young man. So she
took one and another of the admirers who suited her best, bestowing her
favors very impartially, she thought, and verging on the other hand to
the subtle dangers of coquetry. What was there in her smile that should
seem to summon one with a spell of witchery?

Madame De Ber was full of capricious moods as well. She loved her son,
and was very proud of him. She selected this girl and that, but no, it
was useless.

"He has no eyes for anyone but Jeanne," declared Rose half angrily, sore
at Martin's defection as well, though she was not sure she wanted him.
"She coquets first with one, then with another, then holds her head
stiffly above them all. And at the Whitsun dance there was a young
lieutenant who followed her about and she made so much of him that I was
ashamed of her for a French maid."

Rose delivered herself with severe dignity, though she had been very
proud to dance with the American herself.

"Yes, I wish Pierre would see some charm elsewhere. He is old enough now
to marry. And Jeanne Angelot may be only very little French, though her
skin has bleached up clearer, and she puts on delicate airs with her
accent. She will not make a good wife."

"You are talking of Jeanne," and the big body nearly filled the window,
that had no hangings in summer, and the sash was swung open for air.
Pierre leaned his elbows on the sill, and his face flushed deeply. "You
do not like her, I know, but she is the prettiest girl in Detroit, and
she has a dowry as well."

"And that has a tint of scandal about it," rejoined the mother
scornfully.

"But Father Rameau disproved that. And, whatever she is, even if she
were half Indian, I love her! I have always loved her. And I shall marry
her, even if I have to take her up north and spend my whole life there.
I know how to make money, and we shall do well enough. And that will be
the upshot if you and my father oppose me, though I think it is more you
and Rose."

"Did ever a French son talk so to his mother before? If this is northern
manners and respect--"

Madame De Ber dropped into a chair and began to cry, and then, a very
unusual thing it must be confessed, went into hysterics.

"Oh, you have killed her!" screamed Rose.

"She is not dead. Dead people do not make such a noise. Maman, maman,"
the endearing term of childhood, "do not be so vexed. I will be a good
son to you always, but I cannot make myself miserable by marrying one
woman when I love another;" and he kissed her fondly, caressing her with
his strong hands.

The storm blew over presently. That evening when Pere De Ber heard the
story he said, a little gruffly: "Let the boy alone. He is a fine son
and smart, and I need his help. I am not as stout as I used to be. And,
Marie, thou rememberest that thou wert my choice and not that of any
go-between. We have been happy and had fine children because we loved
each other. The girl is pretty and sweet."

They came to neighborly sailing after a while. Jeanne knew nothing of
the dispute, but one day on the river when Martin's canoe was keeping
time with hers, and he making pretty speeches to her, she said:--

"It is not fair nor right that you should pay such devotion to me,
Martin. Rose does not like it, and it makes bad friends. And I think you
care for her, so it is only a jealous play and keeps me uncomfortable."

"Rose does not care for me. She is flying at higher game. And if she
cannot succeed, I will not be whistled back like a dog whose master has
kicked him," cried the young fellow indignantly.

"Rose has said I coquetted with you," Jeanne exclaimed with a roseate
flush and courageous honesty.

"I wish it was something more. Jeanne, you are the sweetest girl in all
Detroit."

"Oh, no, Martin, nor the prettiest, nor the girl who will make the best
wife. And I do not want any lovers, nor to be married, which, I suppose,
is a queer thing. Sometimes I think I will stay in the house altogether,
but it is so warm and gets dreary, and out-of-doors is so beautiful with
sunshine and fragrant air. But if I cannot be friends with anyone--"

"We will be friends, then," said Martin Lavosse.




CHAPTER XII.

PIERRE.


When Madame De Ber found that Pierre was growing moody and dispirited
and talked of going up north again, her mother's heart relented.
Moreover, she could not but see that Jeanne was a great favorite in
spite of her wild forest ways and love of solitude with a book in hand.
Her little nook had become a sort of court, so she went there no more,
for some one was sure to track her. And the great oak was too well
known. She would drop down the river and fasten her canoe in some
sheltered spot, and finding a comfortable place sit and read or dream.
The chapel parson was much interested in her and lent her some wonderful
books,--a strange story in measured lines by one John Milton, and a
history of France that seemed so curious to her she could hardly believe
such people had lived, but the parson said it was all true and that
there were histories of many other countries. But she liked this because
Monsieur St. Armand had gone there.

Yet better than all were the dreams of his return. She could see the
vessel come sailing up the beautiful river and the tall, fine figure
with the long, silken beard snowy white, and the blue eyes, the smiling
mouth, hear the voice that had so much music in it, and feel the clasp
of the hand soft as that of any of the fine ladies. Birds sang and
insects chirped, wild ducks and swans chattered to their neighbors, and
great flocks made a dazzle across the blue sky. Some frogs in marshy
places gave choruses in every key, but nothing disturbed her.

What then?

Something different would come to her life. An old Indian squaw had told
her fortune a year agone. "You will have many lovers and many
adventures," she said, "and people coming from far to claim you, but you
will not go with them. And then another old man, like a father, will
take you over the seas and you will see wonderful things and get a
husband who will love you."

What if M. St. Armand should want to take her over the sea? She did not
belong to anybody; she knew that now, and at times it gave her a
mortifying pain. Some of the ladies had occasionally noticed her and
talked with her, but she had a quick consciousness that they did not
esteem her of their kind. She liked the lovely surroundings of their
lives, the rustle of their gowns, the glitter of the jewels some of them
wore, their long, soft white fingers, so different from the stubby hands
of the habitans. Hers were slim, with pink nails that looked like a bit
of shell, but they were not white. Perhaps there was a little Indian
blood that made her so lithe and light, able to climb trees, to swim
like a fish, and gave her this great love for the wide out-of-doors.

It was hot one afternoon, and she would not go out anywhere. The chamber
window overlooked the garden, where flowers and sweet herbs were
growing, and every whiff of wind sent a shower of fragrance within. She
had dropped her book and gone to dreaming. Pani sat stringing beads for
some embroidery--or perhaps had fallen into a doze.

There was a step and a cordial "_bon soir_." Jeanne roused at the voice.

"I am glad to find you in, Pani. It is well that you have not much house
to keep, for then you could not go out so often."

"No. Be seated, Madame, if it please you."

"Yes. I want a little talk about the child, Pani. Monsieur De Ber has
been in consultation with the notary, M. Loisel, and has laid before him
a marriage proposal from Pierre. He could see no objections. I did think
I would like a little more thrift and household knowledge in my son's
wife, but I am convinced he will never fancy anyone else, and he will be
well enough fixed to keep a maid, though they are wasteful trollops and
not like your own people, Pani. And Jeanne has her dowry. Since she has
no mother or aunt it is but right to consult you, and I know you have
been friendly to Pierre. It will be a very good marriage for her, and I
have come to say we are all agreed, and that the betrothal may take
place as soon as she likes."

Jeanne had listened with amazement and curiosity to the first part of
the speech and the really pleasant tone of voice. Now she came forward
and stood in the doorway, her slim figure erect, her waving hair falling
over her beautiful shoulders, her eyes with the darkness of night in
them, but the color gone out of her cheeks with the great effort she was
making to keep calm.

"Madame De Ber," she began, "I could not help hearing what you said. I
thank you for your kindly feelings toward your son's wishes, but before
any further steps are taken I want to say that a betrothal is out of the
question, and that there can be no plan of marriage between us."

"Jeanne Angelot!" Madame's eyes flashed with yellow lights and her black
brows met in a frown.

"I am sorry that Pierre loves me. I told him long ago, before he went
away, when we were only children, that I could not be his wife. I tried
to evade him when he came back, and to show him how useless his hopes
were. But he would not heed. Even if you had liked and approved me,
Madame, I might have felt sorrier, but that would not have made me love
him."

"And, pray, what is the matter with Pierre? He may not be such a gallant
dancing Jack as the young officer, or a marvelous fiddler like M.
Loisel's nephew, who I hear has been paying court to you. Mam'selle
Jeanne Angelot, you have made yourself the talk of the town, and you may
be glad to have a respectable man marry you."

"Oh, if I were the talk of the town I care too much for Pierre to give
him such a wife. I would take no man's love when I could not return it.
And I do not love Pierre. I think love cannot be made, Madame, for if
you try to make it, it turns to hate. I do not love anyone. I do not
want to marry!"

"Thou hast not the mark of an old maid, and some day it may fare worse
with thee!" the visitor flung out angrily.

Jeanne's face blazed at the taunt. A childish impulse seized her to
strike Madame in the very mouth for it. She kept silence for some
seconds until the angry blood was a little calmer.

"I trust the good God will keep me safe, Madame," she said tremulously,
every pulse still athrob. "I pray to him night and morning."

"But thou dost not go to confession or mass. Such prayers of thine own
planning will never be heard. Thou art a wicked girl, an unbeliever. I
would have trained thee in the safe way, and cared for thee like a
mother. But that is at an end. Now I would not receive thee in my house,
if my son lay dying."

"I shall not come. Do not fear, Madame. And I am truly sorry for Pierre
when there are so many fine girls who would be glad of a nice husband. I
hope he will be happy and get some one you can all love."

Madame was speechless. The soft answer had blunted her weapons. Jeanne
turned away, glided into the chamber and the next instant had leaped out
of the window. There was a grassy spot in the far corner of the garden,
shaded by their neighbor's walnut tree. She flung herself down upon it,
and buried her face in the cool grass.

"My poor son! my poor son!" moaned Madame. "She has no heart, that
child! She is not human. Pani, it was not a child the squaw dropped in
your arms, it was--"

"Hush! hush!" cried Pani, rising and looking fierce as if she might
attack Madame. "Do not utter it. She was made a Christian child in the
church. She is sweet and good, and if she cannot love a husband, the
saints and the holy Mother know why, and will forgive her."

"My poor Pierre! But she is not worth his sorrow. Only he is so
obstinate. Last night he declared he would never take a wife while she
was single. And to deprive him of happiness! To refuse when I had
sacrificed my own feelings and meant to be a mother to her! No, she is
not human. I pity you, Pani."

Then Madame swept out of the door with majestic dignity. Pani clasped
her arms about her knees and rocked herself to and fro, while the old
superstitions and weird legends of her race rushed over her. The mother
might have died, but who was the father? There was some strange blood in
the child.

"Heaven and the saints and the good God keep watch over her!" she prayed
passionately. Then she ran out into the small yard.

"Little one, little one--" her voice was tremulous with fear.

Jeanne sprang up and clasped her arms about Pani's neck. How warm and
soft they were. And her cheek was like a rose leaf.

"Pani," between a cry and a laugh, "do lovers keep coming on forever?
There was Louis Marsac and Pierre, and Martin Lavosse angry with Rose,
and"--her cheek was hot now against Pani's cool one, throbbing with
girlish confusion.

"Because thou art beautiful, child."

"Then I wish I were ugly. Oh, no, I do not, either." Would M. St. Armand
like her so well if she were ugly? "Ah, I do not wonder women become
nuns--sometimes. And I am sincerely sorry for Pierre. I suppose the De
Bers will never speak to me again. Pani, it is growing cooler now, let
us go out in the woods. I feel stifled. I wish we had a wigwam up in the
forest. Come."

Pani put away her work.

"Let us go the other way, the _chemin du ronde_, to the gate. Rose may
be gossiping with some of the neighbors."

They walked down that way. There was quite a throng at King's wharf.
Some new boats had come in. One and another nodded to Jeanne; but just
as she was turning a hand touched her arm, too lightly to be the jostle
of the throng. She was in no mood for familiarities, and shook it off
indignantly.

"Mam'selle Jeanne Angelot," a rather rich voice said in a laughing tone.

She guessed before she even changed the poise of her head. What cruel
fate followed her!

"Nay, do not look so fierce! How you have grown, yet I should have known
you among a thousand."

"Louis Marsac!" The name seemed wrested from her. She could feel the
wrench in her mind.

"Then you have not forgotten me! Mam'selle, I cannot help it--" with a
deprecation in his voice that was an apology and begged for condonation.
"You were pretty before, but you have grown wonderfully beautiful. You
will allow an old friend to say it."

His eyes seemed to devour her, from her dusky head to the finger tips,
nay, even to the slim ankles, for skirts were worn short among the
ordinary women. Only the quality went in trailing gowns, and held them
up carefully in the unpaved ways.

"If you begin to compliment, I shall dismiss you from the list of my
acquaintances. It is foolish and ill-bred. And if you go around praising
every pretty girl in Le Detroit, you will have no time left for
business, Monsieur."

Her face set itself in resolute lines, her voice had a cold scornfulness
in it.

"Is this all the welcome you have for me? I have been in but an hour,
and busy enough with these dolts in unloading. Then I meant to hunt you
up instead of going to sup with Monsieur Meldrum, with whom I have much
business, but an old friend should have the first consideration."

"I am not sure, Monsieur, that I care for friends. I have found them
troublesome. And you would have had your effort for nothing. Pani and I
would not be at home."

"You are the same briery rose, Jeanne," with an amused laugh. "So sweet
a one does well to be set in thorns. Still, I shall claim an old
friend's privilege. And I have no end of stirring adventures for your
ear. I have come now from Quebec, where the ladies are most gracious and
charming."

"Then I shall not please you, Monsieur," curtly. "Come, Pani," linking
her arm in that of the woman, "let us get out of the crowd," and she
nodded a careless adieu.

They turned into a sort of lane that led below the palisades.

"Pani," excitedly, "let us go out on the river. There will be an early
moon, and we shall not mind so that we get in by nine. And we need not
stop to gossip with people, canoes are not so friendly as woodland
paths."

Her laugh was forced and a little bitter.

Pani had hardly recovered from her surprise. She nodded assent with a
feeling that she had been stricken dumb. It was not altogether Louis
Marsac's appearance, he had been expected last summer and had not come.
She had almost forgotten about him. It was Jeanne's mood that perplexed
her so. The two had been such friends and playmates, one might say, only
a few years ago. He had been a slave to her pretty whims then. She had
decorated his head with feathers and called him Chief of Detroit, or she
had twined daisy wreaths and sweet grasses about his neck. He had bent
down the young saplings that she might ride on them, a graceful,
fearless child. They had run races,--she was fleet as the wind and he
could not always catch her. He had gathered the first ripe wild
strawberries, not bigger than the end of her little finger, but, oh, how
luscious! She had quarreled with him, too, she had struck him with a
feathery hemlock branch, until he begged her pardon for some fancied
fault, and nothing had suited him better than to loll under the great
oak tree, listening to Pani's story and all the mysterious suppositions
of her coming. Then he told wild legends of the various tribes, talked
in a strange, guttural accent, danced a war dance, and was almost as
much her attendant as Pani.

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