after the British conquest their only enemies were those Puants, the Pottawattamie Indians, who took the English side, and paid no regard when peace was declared, but still tormented the French because there was no military power to check them.  You see the common fields across the rigole.  The Puants stole stock from the common fields, they trampled down crops, and kidnaped children and even women, to be ransomed for so many horses each.  The French tried to be friendly, and with presents and good words to induce the Puants to leave.  But those Puants—­Oh, they were British Indians:  nothing but whipping would take the impudence out of them.

Celeste Barbeau’s father and mother lived at Prairie du Pont, and Alexis Barbeau was the richest man in this part of the American Bottom.  When Alexis Barbeau was down on his knees at mass, people used to say he counted his money instead of his beads; it was at least as dear to him as religion.  And when he came au Caho’,[1] he hadn’t a word for a poor man.  At Prairie du Pont he had built himself a fine brick house; the bricks were brought from Philadelphia by way of New Orleans.  You have yourself seen it many a time, and the crack down the side made by the great earthquake of 1811.  There he lived like an estated gentleman, for Prairie du Pont was then nothing but a cluster of tenants around his feet.  It was after his death that the village grew.  Celeste did not stay at Prairie du Pont; she was always au Caho’, with her grandmother and grandfather, the old Barbeaus.

Along the south bank of this rigole which bounds the north end of Caho’ were all the pleasantest houses then:  rez-de-chaussee, of course, but large; with dormer windows in the roofs; and high of foundation, having flights of steps going up to the galleries.  For though the Mississippi was a mile away in those days, and had not yet eaten in to our very sides, it often came visiting.  I have seen this grassy-bottomed rigole many a time swimming with fifteen feet of water, and sending ripples to the gallery steps.  Between the marais and the Mississippi, the spring rains were a perpetual danger.  There are men who want the marshes all filled up.  They say it will add to us on one side what the great river is taking from us on the other; but myself—­I would never throw in a shovelful:  God made this world; it is good enough; and when the water rises we can take to boats.

The Le Compts lived in this very house, and the old Barbeaus lived next, on the corner, where this rigole road crosses the street running north and south.  Every house along the rigole was set in spacious grounds, with shade trees and gardens, and the sloping lawns blazed with flowers.  My mother said it was much prettier than Kaskaskia; not crowded with traffic; not overrun with foreigners.  Everybody seemed to be making a fete, to be visiting or receiving visits.  At sunset the fiddle and the banjo began their melody.  The young girls would gather at Barbeau’s or Le Compt’s or Pensonneau’s—­at any one of a dozen places, and the young men would follow.  It was no trouble to have a dance every evening, and on feast days and great days there were balls, of course.  The violin ran in my family.  Celeste Barbeau would call across the hedge to my mother,—­