eplace, and the crane hung over it, with pots and kettles. The
firelight was thrown back from bright pewter and glass and copper all
about the walls; I have never seen so gay a room. And always flowers in
the window, and always a yellow cat on a red cushion. No canary bird; my
mother Marie never would have a bird. "No prisoners!" she would say.
Once a neighbour brought her a wounded sparrow; she nursed and tended it
till spring, then set it loose and watched it fly away.

This neighbour was a boy, some years older than myself; he is one of the
people I remember best. Petie we called him; Peter Brand; he died long
ago. He had been a comfort to my mother Marie, in days of
sadness,--before my birth, for she was never sad after I came,--and she
loved him, and he clung to her. He was a round-faced boy, with hair
almost white; awkward and shy, but very good to me.

As I grew older my mother taught me many French songs and games, and
Petie often made a third with us. He made strange work of the French
speech; to me it came like running water, but to Petie it was like
pouring wine from a corked bottle. Mother Marie could not understand
this, and tried always to teach him. I can hear her cry out, "Not thus,
Petie! not! you break me the ears! Listen only!

"'_Sur le pont d'Avignon_,'

_Encore!_ again, Petie! sing wiz p'tit Jacques!"

And Petie would drone out, all on one note (for the poor boy had no
music either),

"_Sooly pong d'Avinnong_,"

And Mother Marie would put her hands to her ears and cry out, "Ah, _que
non_! ah, _que non_! you keell me in my heart!" and poor Petie would be
so ashamed! Then Mother Marie would be grieved for him, and would beat
herself, and say that she was a demon, a monster of cruelty; and she
would run to the cupboard and bring cakes and doughnuts (she always
called them "dont's," I remember that), and make Petie eat till his eyes
stood out. And it always ended in her taking out the violin, and playing
and singing our hearts to heaven. Petie loved music, when Mother Marie
made it.

I speak of cakes. There was no one in the village who could cook like my
mother; every one acknowledged that. Whatever she put her hand to was
done to perfection. And the prettiness of it all! A flower, a green
leaf, a bunch of parsley,--there was some delicate, pretty touch to
everything she did. I must have been still small when I began to notice
how she arranged the dishes on our table. Thes