The traveler who comes to visit on the island of Montreal gets no correct idea of the beauty of it all until he has climbed to the top of Mount Royal, which rises directly behind the great city of Montreal in the Province of Quebec. From this elevation, about one thousand feet above sea level, the observer beholds not only the banks of the St. Lawrence river, with its warehouses, grain elevators and shipping; he sees not only this solidly built city of churches—but far to his left stretches the farming country of the Province of Quebec, far to his right, on clear days he can see the Adirondack Mountains and Lake Champlain, while on the opposite shores of the St. Lawrence, spanned by the once famous Victoria Bridge, he sees the villages of Longueil and St. Lambert.

Then, from the very summit of this mountain, he must also look behind him and see the numerous small towns and villages that lie back of Mount Royal, all of these being reached by tramways which run out from Montreal.

The largest of these settlements are known, one as Outremont, the other as Cote-des-Neiges; translated into English these would be known as "behind the mountain" and "hill of snow."

It was in the latter village of Cote-des-Neiges that little Oisette Mary Tremblent, our little Canadian, or, rather, our little Quebec cousin, was born. The French Canadian child is the product of five generations of French people whose ancestors came from France with Champlain and Jacques Cartier, and who, when the British won Canada from France, were allowed by the British to keep their own tongue, their own religion and their own flag.

Let me introduce Oisette Mary Tremblent, our little Quebec cousin, to you. Behold, then, a very plump little girl, with skin the color of saffron tea and a nose as flat as flat can be. There never were such bead-like eyes, nor such black shiny hair as hers.

She usually wore a black and red checked dress of worsted, with bright blue collar and cuffs, and around her neck was a purple ribbon, on which was hung a silver medal. On this medal was stamped the figure of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

It will be seen that Oisette Mary's people loved gay colors.

She was a very happy little girl from the time she slipped out of bed in the morning, always awakened by the neighboring church bell of the parish ringing its three strokes—"Father, Son and Holy Ghost." When she heard this bell, Oisette bowed her little head three times and made the sign of the Cross.

Her day was thirteen hours long and she knew no naps! Small wonder that she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillows, and she heard nothing of the violin playing, the singing and sometimes dancing that went on in the rooms below stairs.

Oisette Mary had two older sisters away at a convent school, two older brothers, one already studying for the priesthood, and one small baby brother, who spent long hours on the cottage floor with "Carleau" the dog, for company.

A family of six children! What a large family you think? Not at all! French Canadian families frequently number twelve or more, and less than ten children is counted as a small household.

Monsieur Tremblent, Oisette's father, owned a large and valuable melon patch. You know Montreal melon is famous the world over; and on fine days in August one could see Monsieur Tremblent walking slowly along, counting his melons as they grew.

"Un, deux, trois, quatre," he would murmur. In his wake little Oisette would follow, gay little parrot that she was, also repeating after him. "Cinque, six, sept, huit." In this way she had learned to count.

Now, it happened that the tenth melon was a large fine one, and, when Oisette beheld it, she sat right down beside it, put her two little arms around it and murmured: "C'est pour Monsieur, le CurÉ," which translated into English reads: "This is for the priest." Her father chuckled and said to Louis, her brother, who was weeding hard by, "She is just like her mother, the little one, she always remembers the priest."

Madame Tremblent was diminutive in stature, her two interests in life were her home and her church; she understood the English language as she heard it spoken, but she had never attempted to utter a word in English herself, nor could she read a line of anything but French.

Her husband wore a silk hat and frock coat on Sundays and Holy Days, he attended political meetings and was a keen politician, could address a meeting in either tongue, as can most young Canadian Frenchmen; but Madame apparently took no interest other than to see that her husband's coat was well brushed, his silk hat very glossy indeed.

She consulted her priest when anything worried her, she had so little faith in banks that she always carried her house-keeping money either in her stocking or in her petticoat pockets.

There came a day in early September when quantities of melons were gathered for the market, put in the big farm wagon, and Oisette was allowed to sit by her father on the high seat as they drove to the Bonsecour Market in Montreal. The start was made in the early morning. Oisette sang to herself as they rumbled along.

"Alouette, gentille Alouette, Alouette, Je te plumerai,
Je te plumerai la tÊte, Je te plumerai la tÊte,
O Alouette, gentille Alouette, Alouette, Je te plumerai."[1]

The French Canadian is apt to sing when he is very happy, and Oisette was especially happy to-day, for she knew that that tenth melon, or one very like it, had been left in the front vestibule of her home, ready to be sent to the priest's home later in the day.

There is one quality that the French Canadian child has, which is not always to be found in children of every nationality: namely, obedience. One seldom finds a naughty or willful little French boy or girl. They are stolid perhaps and placid, but there is no kicking or screaming.

On this particular September morning, Oisette, when the Bonsecour Market was finally reached, waited patiently for her father, she sat on the high seat now by herself. The team, along with many others, was lined up beside the market. From this perch she could see the beautiful river, the boats coming in and leaving the harbor; she could see the wharves and the loading and unloading of great steamers. It was all very fascinating.

Then back of her was the great market, all the stalls were piled high with fruit and vegetables of every size and shape in a riot of color.

Along the pavement were coops of live chickens and turkeys. There were long pouches of "black pudding," dangling from the booths. The stalls were heaped with home grown tobacco, dark slabs of maple sugar, home woven toweling, curtains, rugs, carpets, firmly knit socks, elaborately plaited mats. A charm and a glamor hangs over the generally commonplace business of buying and selling, getting gain, and making provision for the needs of the day. The whole thing is like a gay picture book. There are groups of habitant women, all talking in chorus; the queer little blue and red carts that have come from across the river by ferry; the small pink pigs squealing their hardest as they are lifted from the crates of the vendors to the sacks of the purchasers; the squawking of fowls whose end is near. Certainly Bonsecour Market is a spot to be visited if one would see the Habitant in his happiest mood.

About ten o'clock the customers arrive. There are lovely ladies in limousines, and sometimes there would hop out of a motor a pretty little English Canadian girl, to buy some nuts from open bags which always stand in rows along the pavements.

One day a very lively little missie gave Oisette a handful of English walnuts and invited her to climb down and come inside the market and see some little pigs.

But Oisette had been told to remain on guard, and remain she did. Now and then she would have a glimpse of her father as he went from stall to stall disposing of his stock.

One of his best customers was an old Irish dame, who had a French name because she had married in her youth one Alphonse LeBlanc, but she did not speak French at all. She was very popular with the English customers, and many of the "quality" (as she called them), bought her fruit and vegetables because she spoke their tongue. Her manners, too, made her famous throughout the market. As a customer arrived, she would make a deep curtsy, as though Royalty approached, and would say in her rich brogue, "And what fer yez, Darlin?"

One market day, when a cold slanting rain came on, Madame LeBlanc insisted that Monsieur Tremblent should lift little Oisette down and bring her inside Madame's stall.

So she was made very cozy beside a diminutive stove, known as a Quebec heater. It certainly was a very warmth giving stove, with a black iron kettle on the top, which poured forth a long plume of white steam. On a shelf hard by a big yellow and black cat purred very loud, as though trying to beat the kettle. He was flanked on each side by pyramids of cheese.

In spite of wind and weather, customers arrived, one and two at a time; they would step inside one at a time, leaving just room enough for Madame to curtsy. Most of them noticed Oisette and asked Madame about her. When Monsieur Tremblent came back at last to call for his little girl, he found she had made friends with the cat and had her pockets full of latire (molasses candy), and was holding a big red apple. Small wonder that her face was wreathed in smiles.

When her father opened the door, Oisette heard Madame say: "Come in, dear, shut the door, and we'll have a cup of tay."

A cup of this strong brewing was prepared for little Oisette as a matter of course—which may explain why her complexion was so murky.

On this particular market day however, as she sat beside her father, the fresh September breeze gave her a very bright color, and her eyes were shining with excitement. Several lovely things had happened, all of which she would remember to tell her mother about when home was reached. First there was a band of music leading some fine-looking soldier boys along the road, and the tune was very catching. The boys were all singing "Over There" as they swung along. Then, because some road was closed for repairs, her father had driven into town by a new route and she saw, for the first time, a statue of the late King Edward the Seventh, which she admired very much. Then after the big market wagon rumbled down a very steep long hill, she saw the monument in Place d'Armes Square known as "The Landing of Maisonneuve."

This was an old friend, but she was never tired of looking at it, and knew all the figures about the base. There was the fierce Iroquois Indian crouching for his prey. There was the huntsman with his gun and dog; there was the sweet-faced nun, Jeanne Mance, who founded the order of Black Nuns in Canada, and then, atop of all, was the dashing French Cavalier Maisonneuve in his plumed hat, corselet and top boots. He was the founder of this great city of Montreal in the year 1642.

She was never tired of hearing the story of those early days as her father told it to her.

How the brave voyageurs had come to a land filled with hostile tribes of Indians. First these adventurous Frenchmen settled in Quebec, the city of Quebec was founded, and then Paul de Comedy, Sire de Maisonneuve, being anxious to follow up this great river St. Lawrence, coaxed his men to row with him the one hundred and sixty miles right against a swift current until they came to Mount Royal and beheld the swift rapids in the river; these are now called Lachine Rapids. So they decided to land and build another village.

One can read in Parkman's history a very clear picture of that scene, just at twilight when they stepped from their boats and tired as they were, they stopped to build an altar and hold a mass of thanksgiving to God for the safe journey. For lights on that altar, they imprisoned fireflies in bottles and the company all knelt on the ground while the mass was said. They were watched by hostile Iroquois Indians who lurked in the shadow of the trees.

All this was long long ago. There are no more Indians wearing blankets nowadays. But on this spot where mass was said rises the great solid city of Montreal with its two nationalities, French and English, trying to live in harmony.

This statue stands in Place d'Armes Square, just in front of the famous Notre Dame church, with its twin towers, two hundred and twenty-seven feet high. In these towers hang some famous chimes. One bell of this chime weighs twenty-four thousand seven hundred and eighty pounds and is known as the Great Bourdon. It takes seven men to ring it, and it has a deep booming note that is heard for miles.

There is a legend about this corner of the square where this church stands. It seems that there is always a breeze blowing just here, even the very hottest day in summer, and the story goes that on this corner the Devil and the Wind once met, and the wind as it swept up from the river and swirled around the corner said to the Devil: "I'll travel along with you," and Satan replied, "Before we start, I must go into this great church here and confess my sins, so you wait around this corner until I am done." And the wind said: "Very well, I'll hang around." Now, when the Devil got into the confessional, he had so many sins to confess that he is still there, and the wind still waits on that corner; waiting, waiting.

One day when Oisette Mary drove past that street corner, the wind did sweep up through the narrow street, from the river, swirl around the corner and away went her hat rolling across the square, driven by the summer breeze until it was caught at the base of the Maisonneuve monument and finally handed back to her by a French boy. So she never forgot the legend.