Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,
Borne aloft on his comrades’ arms, came Michael the fiddler. 
Long under Basil’s roof had he lived like a god on Olympus,
Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. 
Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. 
“Long live Michael,” they cried, “our brave Acadian minstrel!”
As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,
Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. 
Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant blacksmith,
All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;
Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,
And of the prairie; whose numberless herds were his who would take them;
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. 
Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda,
Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil
Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. 
All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver,
Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,
Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight. 
Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman
Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. 
Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,
Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:—­
“Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless,
Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one! 
Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;
Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. 
Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water. 
All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows
More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. 
Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;
Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. 
After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,
No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,
Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle.” 
Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,
While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table,
So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded,
Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to