One day Mukee brought two little Indian babies
and set them on the bearskin, where they continued to sit in stoic
indifference--a clear proof of the superior development of Melisse.
"I wouldn't be surprised to hear her begin talking at any time,"
confided Cummins to Jan, one evening when the boy was tuning his
violin. "She is nearly six months old."
"Do you suppose she would begin in French?" asked Jan, suddenly
stopping the tightening of his strings.
Cummins stared.
"Why?"
Jan dropped his voice to an impressive whisper.
"Because I have heard her many times say, 'Bon-bon--bonbon--bonbon'--
which means candee; and always I have given her candee, an' now ze
leetle Melisse say 'Bonbon' all of ze time."
"Well," said Cummins, eying him in half belief. "Could it happen?"
Like a shot Jan replied:
"I began in Engleesh, an' Jan Thoreau is French!"
He began playing, but Cummins did not hear much of the music. He went
to the door, and stared in lonely grief at the top of the tall spruce
over the grave. Later he said to Jan:
"It would be bad if that were so. Give her no more sweet stuff when
she says 'Bonbon,' Jan. She must forget!"
The next day Jan tore down the sapling barricade around the woman's
grave, and from noon until almost sunset he skirted the sunny side of
a great ridge to the south.
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