In summer the little fields were broken with wooden ploughs, followed by
the limb of a tree for harrow, and the sickle, the scythe, and the flail
to do their office in due course; and if the man were well-to-do, he
swung the cradle in his rye and wheat, rejoicing in the sweep of the
knife and the fulness of the swathe. Then, too, there was the driving of
the rivers, when the young men ran the logs from the backwoods to the
great mills near and far: red-shirted, sashed, knee-booted, with rings in
their ears, and wide hats on their heads, and a song in their mouths,
breaking a jamb, or steering a crib, or raft, down the rapids. And the
voyageur also, who brought furs out of the North down the great lakes,
came home again to Pontiac, singing in his patois:
"Nous avons passe le bois,
Nous somm's a la rive!"
Or, as he went forth:
"Le dieu du jour s'avance;
Amis, les vents sont doux;
Berces par l'esperance,
Partons, embarquons-noun.
A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a!"
And, as we know, it was summer when Valmond came to Pontiac. The river-
drivers were just beginning to return, and by and by the flax swingeing
would begin in the little secluded valley by the river; and one would
see, near and far, the bright sickle flashing across the gold and green
area; and all the pleasant furniture of summer set forth in pride, by the
Mother of the House whom we call Nature.
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