o
strange to his:--

"Knowledge is power."

In years he was but thirty-five; but he was a widower, and the one son
who was his only child and companion would presently be fourteen.

"Claude," he said, as they rose that evening from their hard supper in
the light and fumes of their small kerosene-lamp, "_I' faut z-ahler
coucher._" (We must go to bed.)

"_Quofoir?_" asked the sturdy lad. (_Pourquoi?_ Why?)

"Because," replied the father in the same strange French in which he
had begun, "at daybreak to-morrow, and every day thereafter, you must
be in your dug-out on your way to Grande Pointe, to school. My son,
you are going to learn how to read!"

So came it that, until their alphabetical re-arrangement, the first of
all the thirty-five names on the roll was Claude St. Pierre, and that
every evening thenceforward when that small kerosene-lamp glimmered in
the deep darkness of Bayou des Acadiens, the abecedarian Claude was a
teacher.

But even before the first rough roll was made he was present, under
the little chapel-tower, when for the first time its bell rang for
school. The young master was there, and all the children; so that
really there was nothing to ring the bell for. They could, all
together, have walked quietly across the village green to the forlorn
tobacco-shed that 'Mian had given them for a schoolhouse, and begun
the session. Ah! say not so! It was good to ring the bell. A few of
the stronger lads would even have sent the glad clang abroad before
the time, but Bonaventure restrained them. For one thing, there must
be room for every one to bear a hand. So he tied above their best
reach three strands of "carat" cord to the main rope. Even then he was
not ready.

"No, dear chil'run; but grasp hold, every one, the ropes, the
cawds,--the shawt chil'run reaching up shawtly, the long chil'run the
more longly."

Few understood his words, but they quietly caught the idea, and
yielded themselves eagerly to his arranging hand. The highest grasp
was Claude's. There was a little empty space under it, and then one
only of Sidonie's hands, timid, smooth, and brown. And still the
master held back the word.

"Not yet! not yet! The pear is not ripe!" He stood apart from them,
near the chapel-door, where the light was strong, his silver watch
open in his left hand, his form erect, his right hand lifted to the
brim of his hat, his eyes upon the dial.

"Not yet, dear chil'run. Not yet. Two minute mo'.--Be ready.