Here the comely brunettes, in moccasins or slippers, their
luxuriant hair falling in a braided queue behind their backs,
served not only as tireless partners, but as foils to the young
men, who were one and all consummate masters of step-dancing, an
art which, I am glad to say, was still in vogue in these remote
parts. "French-fours" and the immortal "Red River Jig" were
repeated again and again, and, though a tall and handsome young
half-breed, who had learned in Edmonton, probably, the airs and
graces of the polite world, introduced cotillions and gave "the
calls" with vigorous precision, yet his efforts were not thoroughly
successful. Snarls arose, and knots and confusion, which he did
his best to undo. But it was evident that the hearts of the dancers
were not in it. No sooner was the fiddler heard lowering his
strings for the time-honoured "Jig" than eyes brightened, and
feet began to beat the floor, including, of course, those of
the fiddler himself, who put his whole soul into that weird and
wonderful melody, whose fantastic glee is so strangely blended
with an indescribable master-note of sadness. The dance itself
is nothing; it might as well be called a Rigadoon or a Sailor's
Hornpipe, so far as the steps go. The tune is everything; it is
amongst the immortals. Who composed it? Did it come from Normandy,
the ancestral home of so many French Canadians and of French
Canadian song? Or did some lonely but inspired voyageur, on the
banks of Red River, sighing for Detroit or Trois Rivi??res--for
the joys and sorrows of home--give birth to its mingled chords in
the far, wild past?
As I looked on, many memories recurred to me of scenes like this in
which I had myself taken part in bygone days--_Eheu! fugaces_--in
old Red River and the Saskatchewan; and, with these in my heart,
I retired to my tent, and gradually fell asleep to the monotonous
sound of the familiar yet inexplicable air.
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