Glasper
2009-08-31 08:34:57 UTC
Uishing, even if you rode up from behind, that told of youth, of mettle,
of self-regard; a neatness of fit in the dress, a firm erectness in the
little slim back, a faint proudness of neck, a glimpse of ribbon at the
throat, another at the waist; a something of assertion in the slight
crispness of her homespun sunbonnet, and a ravishing glint of two sparks
inside it as you got one glance within--no more. And as you rode on, if
you were a young blade, you would be--as the soldier lads used to
say--all curled up; but if you were an old mustache, you would smile
inwardly and say to yourself, "She will have her way; she will make all
winds blow in her chosen direction; she will please herself; she will be
her own good luck and her own commander-in-chief, and, withal, nobody's
misery or humiliation, unless you count the swain after swain that will
sigh in vain." As for Bonaventure, sitting beside her, you could just
see his bare feet limply pendulous under his wide palm-leaf hat. And yet
he was a very real personage. "Bonaventure," said Zosephine,--this was
as they were returning from church, the wide rawhide straps of their
huge wooden two-wheeled vehicle creaking as a new saddle would if a new
saddle were as big as a house,--"Bonaventure, I wish you could learn how
to dance. I am tired trying to teach you." (This and most of the
unbroken English of this story stands for Acadian French.) Bonaventure
looked meek for a moment, and then resentful as he said: "'Thanase does
not dance." "'Thanase! Bah! What has 'Thanase to do with it? Who was
even thinking of 'Thanase? Was he there last night? Ah yes! I just
remember now he was. But even he could dance if he chose; while you--you
can't learn! You vex me. 'Thanase! What do you always bring him up for?
I wish you would have the kindness just not to remind me of him! Why
does not some one tell him how he looks, hoisted up with his feet in our
faces, scratching his fiddle? Now, the fiddle, Bonaventure--the fiddle
would just suit you. Ah, if you could play!" But the boy's quick
of self-regard; a neatness of fit in the dress, a firm erectness in the
little slim back, a faint proudness of neck, a glimpse of ribbon at the
throat, another at the waist; a something of assertion in the slight
crispness of her homespun sunbonnet, and a ravishing glint of two sparks
inside it as you got one glance within--no more. And as you rode on, if
you were a young blade, you would be--as the soldier lads used to
say--all curled up; but if you were an old mustache, you would smile
inwardly and say to yourself, "She will have her way; she will make all
winds blow in her chosen direction; she will please herself; she will be
her own good luck and her own commander-in-chief, and, withal, nobody's
misery or humiliation, unless you count the swain after swain that will
sigh in vain." As for Bonaventure, sitting beside her, you could just
see his bare feet limply pendulous under his wide palm-leaf hat. And yet
he was a very real personage. "Bonaventure," said Zosephine,--this was
as they were returning from church, the wide rawhide straps of their
huge wooden two-wheeled vehicle creaking as a new saddle would if a new
saddle were as big as a house,--"Bonaventure, I wish you could learn how
to dance. I am tired trying to teach you." (This and most of the
unbroken English of this story stands for Acadian French.) Bonaventure
looked meek for a moment, and then resentful as he said: "'Thanase does
not dance." "'Thanase! Bah! What has 'Thanase to do with it? Who was
even thinking of 'Thanase? Was he there last night? Ah yes! I just
remember now he was. But even he could dance if he chose; while you--you
can't learn! You vex me. 'Thanase! What do you always bring him up for?
I wish you would have the kindness just not to remind me of him! Why
does not some one tell him how he looks, hoisted up with his feet in our
faces, scratching his fiddle? Now, the fiddle, Bonaventure--the fiddle
would just suit you. Ah, if you could play!" But the boy's quick