h the
early settlers round the Citadel of Quebec. Amongst the accomplishments
which he possessed was that of scraping out woful strains upon an
ancient fiddle. In this land, where life was always serious, he was a
right jovial companion for such men as Nick and Ralph, and the merry
evenings in his company at the store were well thought of.

When night closed down, and supper was finished, and the untidy
living-room which backed the store was cleared by the half-breed, the
business of the evening's entertainment began. The first thing in
Victor's idea of hospitality was a "brew" of hot drink. He would have
called it "punch," but the name was impossible. It was a decoction of
vanilla essence, spiced up, and flavoured in a manner which, he claimed,
only he understood. The result was stimulating, slightly nauseating, but
sufficiently unusual to be enticing to those who lived the sober life of
the mountain wild. He would have bestowed good rum or whiskey upon these
comrades of his, only his store of those seductive beverages had long
since given out, and was not likely to be replenished until the breaking
of spring. The variety of strong drink which falls to the lot of such
men as he is extensive. His days of "painkiller," which he stocked for
trade, had not yet come round. The essences were not yet finished.
Painkiller would come next; after that, if need be, would come libations
of red ink. He had even, in his time, been reduced to boiling down plug
tobacco and distilling the liquor. But these last two were only used
_in extremis_.

The three men sat round and sipped the steaming liquor, the two brothers
vying with each other in their praises of Victor's skill in the "brew."

The first glass was drunk with much appreciation. Over the second came a
dallying. Nick, experiencing the influence of the spirit, asked for a
tune on the fiddle. Victor responded with alacrity and wailed out an old
half-breed melody, a series of repetitions of a morbid refrain. It
produced, nevertheless, an enlivening effect upon Ralph, who asked for
another. Then Victor sang, in a thin tenor voice, the twenty and odd
verses of a song called "The Red River Valley;" the last lines of the
refrain were always the same and wailed out mournfully upon the dense
atmosphere of the room.

"So remember the Red River Valley
And the half-breed that loved you so true."

But, even so, there was something perfectly in keeping between the
recreation of