The dance at Joe Chevalier, and other poems . dogs get used to her an deywon touch her or dose fawn, and dey wontek her track. No. One day, I hear some strange dog, longway off, comin to my camp. I go to camp;I tink mebbe dats my doe, an bime-by Isee her comin right for me. She come inde house an jomp on my bunk an laydown an pant, pant. She have long runan she look at me again lak wen I firssaw her. I trow my blanket over her an denshut de door an watch for dem dog. Inbout five minute dey come up, an hoi dattrail up to my door, an den dey lookfooliwSh—dey try to fin dat trail again, butdey so
The dance at Joe Chevalier, and other poems . dogs get used to her an deywon touch her or dose fawn, and dey wontek her track. No. One day, I hear some strange dog, longway off, comin to my camp. I go to camp;I tink mebbe dats my doe, an bime-by Isee her comin right for me. She come inde house an jomp on my bunk an laydown an pant, pant. She have long runan she look at me again lak wen I firssaw her. I trow my blanket over her an denshut de door an watch for dem dog. Inbout five minute dey come up, an hoi dattrail up to my door, an den dey lookfooliwSh—dey try to fin dat trail again, butdey soon fin she is inside, and den I let demdog fin out dey run de wrong deer. Datwinter bot dose fawn get kill by wolf, butdat ol doe she always come to my camp,an she never mek mistek to trus me. But 41 Canadian Sketches. she get kill dat Summer—funny, dat was(with a sly glance at the Old Hunter).One dem ol hunter from de State tink sheis wil an shoot her in my potato-patch widforty-eight buck-shot. He was foolish; hecould kill her wid 42 ^I^l^l^l^l^l^i^l A Christmas Story. TT was a genial, typical Christmas day,that of 1801; the sun shone benignantlyand a curious group looked out across theMaurnee Bay from the shore at PresqueIsle. Several French voyageurs, careless,happy and voluble. A group of Indians,silent and watchful. Two American hunt-ers, alert, rifle on arm and with an occa-sional glance at the priming. A couple ofEnglish traders, reckless dare-devils, butresourceful. They had stood thus for an hour, watch-ing across the snow for Father Placide,from Frenchtown (Monroe). At last, from one of the Frenchmen: 43 A Christmas Story. Voila! de good Fader. A contemptuousgrunt from one of the Indians: See himlong time. A little speck, far across the Bay atfirst, but soon the sturdy little Canadianpony, bursting breast high through thedrifts—and Father Placide has the pony and calling him MonBrave, while willing hands unhitched him,he greets each one. A
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