Palmyrea the Octoroon, or of Honore
Grandissime's "f. m. c." the half-brother, or of the pitiful voudou
woman Clemence, the wretched old _marchande de calas_. Had he produced
nothing more than his first small volume of seven tales, he would have
made for himself an honored place in literature.

As a collection, these stories are unrivaled for pictorial power and
dramatic form, and are so nearly of equal merit that any one would be as
representative in the popular mind as the one which is given here.

"POSSON JONE'"

From 'Old Creole Days': copyrighted 1879, 1881, 1883, by Charles
Scribner's Sons

To Jules St. Ange--elegant little heathen--there yet remained at manhood
a remembrance of having been to school, and of having been taught by a
stony-headed Capuchin that the world is round--for example, like a
cheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten through, and Jules had
nibbled quite into his cheese-world already at twenty-two.

He realized this, as he idled about one Sunday morning where the
intersection of Royal and Conti Streets some seventy years ago formed a
central corner of New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was he had been
wasteful and honest. He discussed the matter with that faithful friend
and confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant. They concluded that,
papa's patience and _tante's_ pin-money having been gnawed away quite to
the rind, there were left open only these few easily enumerated
resorts:--to go to work--they shuddered; to join Major Innerarity's
filibustering expedition; or else--why not?--to try some games of
confidence. At twenty-two one must begin to be something. Nothing else
tempted; could that avail? One could but try. It is noble to try; and
besides, they were hungry. If one could "make the friendship" of some
person from the country, for instance, with money,--not expert at cards
or dice, but as one would say, willing to learn,--one might find cause
to say some "Hail Marys."

The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste pronounced it good
for luck. There had been a hurricane in the night. The weed-grown
tile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe walls
a rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. Up-street, and across
the Rue du Canal, one could get glimpses of the gardens in Faubourg
Ste.-Marie standing in silent wretchedness, so many tearful Lucretias,
tattered victims of the storm. Short remnants of the wind now and then
came down the nar