of de yellow fever; my lil' boy,
he's daid, po' Tante Marie all alone. Didele, she grow fine, she keep
house an' mek' pralines. Den, when night come, she sit wid he's guitar
an' sing,

"'Tu l'aime ces trois jours,
Tu l'aime ces trois jours,
Ma coeur a toi,
Ma coeur a toi,
Tu l'aime ces trois jours!'

"Ah, he's fine gal, is Didele!

"Pralines, pralines! Dat lil' cloud, h'it look lak' rain, I hope no.

"Here come dat lazy I'ishman down de strit. I don't lak' I'ishman, me,
non, dey so funny. One day one I'ishman, he say to me, 'Auntie, what
fo' you talk so?' and I jes' say back, 'What fo' you say "Faith an' be
jabers"?' Non, I don' lak I'ishman, me!

"Here come de rain! Now I got fo' to go. Didele, she be wait fo' me.
Down h'it come! H'it fall in de Meesseesip, an' fill up--up--so, clean
to de levee, den we have big crivasse, an' po' Tante Marie float away.
Bon jour, madame, you come again? Pralines! Pralines!"

ODALIE

Now and then Carnival time comes at the time of the good Saint
Valentine, and then sometimes it comes as late as the warm days in
March, when spring is indeed upon us, and the greenness of the grass
outvies the green in the royal standards.

Days and days before the Carnival proper, New Orleans begins to take on
a festive appearance. Here and there the royal flags with their
glowing greens and violets and yellows appear, and then, as if by
magic, the streets and buildings flame and burst like poppies out of
bud, into a glorious refulgence of colour that steeps the senses into a
languorous acceptance of warmth and beauty.

On Mardi Gras day, as you know, it is a town gone mad with folly. A
huge masked ball emptied into the streets at daylight; a meeting of all
nations on common ground, a pot-pourri of every conceivable human
ingredient, but faintly describes it all. There are music and flowers,
cries and laughter and song and joyousness, and never an aching heart
to show its sorrow or dim the happiness of the streets. A wondrous
thing, this Carnival!

But the old cronies down in Frenchtown, who know everything, and can
recite you many a story, tell of one sad heart on Mardi Gras years ago.
It was a woman's, of course; for "Il est toujours les femmes qui sont
malheureuses," says an old proverb, and perhaps it is right. This
woman--a child, she would be called elsewhere, save in this land of
tropical growth and precocity--lost her heart to one who nev