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locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;

      But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners;

      There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.

       Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,

      Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre,

      Dwelt on his goodly acres: and with him, directing his household,

      Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.

      Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;

      Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;

      White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.

      Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.

      Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,

      Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!

      Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.

      When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide

      Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden,

      Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret

      Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop

      Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,

      Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,

      Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,

      Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,

      Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.

      But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty—

      Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,

      Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.

      When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

       Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer

      Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady

      Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.

      Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath

      Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.

      Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,

      Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,

      Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.

      Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown

      Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.

      Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,

      There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;

      There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,

      Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame

      Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

      Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one

      Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,

      Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.

      There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates

      Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes

      Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.

       Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pre

      Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.

      Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,

      Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;

      Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!

      Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,

      And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,

      Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;

      Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,

      Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered

      Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.

      But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;

      Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,

      Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;

      For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,

      Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.

      Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood

      Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,

      Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters

      Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.

      But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,

      Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.

      There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him

      Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,

      Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel

      Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.

      Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness

      Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,

      Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,

      And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,

      Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.

      Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,

      Down the hillside hounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.

      Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,

      Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow

      Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;

      Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!

      Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.

      He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,

      Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.

      She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.

      "Sunshine of Saint Eulalie" was she called; for that was the sunshine

      Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples

      She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,

      Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.

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