It was sunset when I reached the margin of the prairie on which the village is situated. My horse, wearied with a long day’s travel, sprang forward with new vigour, when his hoof struck the smooth, firm road which led across the plain. It was a narrow path, winding among the tall grass, now tinged with the mellow hues of autumn. I gazed with delight over the beautiful surface. The mounds, and the solitary trees, were there, just as I had left them; and they were familiar to my eye as the objects of yesterday. It was eight miles across the prairie, and I had not passed half the distance when night set in. I strained my eyes to catch a glimpse of the village; but two large mounds and a clump of trees, which intervened, defeated my purpose. I thought of Gabrielle, and Jeannette, and Baptiste, and the priest--the fiddles, dances, and French ponies; and fancied every minute an hour, and every foot a mile, which separated me from scenes and persons so deeply impressed on my imagination. At length I passed the mounds, and beheld the lights twinkling in the village, now about two miles off, like a brilliant constellation in the horizon. The lights seemed very numerous--I thought they moved; and at last discovered that they were rapidly passing about. “What can be going on in the village?” thought I--then a strain of music met my ear--“they are going to dance,” said I, striking my spurs into my jaded nag, “and I shall see all my friends together.” But as I drew near, a volume of sounds burst upon me such as defied all conjecture. Fiddles, flutes and tambourines, drums, cow-horns, tin trumpets, and kettles mingled their discordant notes with a strange accompaniment of laughter, shouts and singing. This singular concert proceeded from a mob of men and boys, who paraded through the streets, preceded by one who blew an immense tin horn, and ever and anon shouted, “Cha-ri-va-ry! Charivary!” to which the mob responded “Charivary!” I now recollected having heard of a custom which prevails among the American French of serenading at the marriage of a widow or widower, with such a concert as I now witnessed; and I rode towards the crowd, who had halted before a well known door, to ascertain who were the happy parties. “Charivary!” shouted the leader. “Pour qui?” said another voice. “Pour Mons. Baptiste Menou. Il s’est marié!” “Avec qui?” “Avec Mam’selle Jeannette Duval--Charivary!” “Charivary!” shouted the whole company, and a torrent of music poured from the full band--tin kettles, cow-horns and all.