Accordingly I spent several days among the farms and cottages of the old French-Canadians with this large-hearted man. I shall never forget his recitation of his own poems. They brought tears to my eyes and lumps to my throat, they were so simple and so real. And these poor folk loved him. It was a treat to see a man so respected and adored by the people whom he had been at such pains to make understood. Drummond was the Kipling—the Bret Harte of Canada. He was not much of a French scholar. His accent was horrible, but he comprehended. He had that human understanding and perception that count for more than mere words. He would sit and smoke in the corner with an old man, and draw him out to tell me stories while the wife made cakes for our tea. Complimenting me on my French, he said: “I can’t speak like you; often I can’t even say or ask what I want.” “Perhaps if you knew more, you would not be able to make your poems so quaint,” I replied. “I believe you are right. I jot down the English or French words just as I use them, as the Habitants use them, and perhaps if I knew more I should not do that.” He was so human, so lovable, and at that time so poor. Half a dozen years afterwards Fortune smiled. His books were selling well; his cobalt mines had begun to pay. Then he heard disease (smallpox I think it was) had broken out at the far-away mines. “I must go,” he said. “I cannot take the money these men are bringing me, without going to their help.” He went; but almost before he had had time to make his medical knowledge of value to them, he was himself stricken and died. Poor Drummond, a lovable character, and a genial comrade. The following verses are a good specimen of his style. They are taken from “The Habitant’s Jubilee Ode,” written at the time of the celebration of the sixtieth year of Queen Victoria’s rule. Why, the Habitant is asking himself, are the “children of Queen Victoriaw comin’ from far away? For tole Madame w’at dey t’ink of her, an’ wishin’ her bonne santé.” The answer is good French-Canadian and good sense: If de moder come dead w’en you’re small garçon, leavin’ you dere alone, Wit’ nobody watchin’ for fear you fall, and hurt youse’f on de stone, An’ ’noder good woman she tak’ your han’ de sam’ your own moder do, Is it right you don’t call her moder, is it right you don’t love her too? Bâ non, an’ dat was de way we feel, w’en de old Regime’s no more, An’ de new wan come, but don’t change moche, w’y it’s jus’ lak’ it be before, Spikin’ Français lak’ we alway do, an’ de English dey mak’ no fuss, An’ our law de sam’, wall, I don’t know me, ’twas better mebbe for us. So de sam’ as two broder we settle down, leevin’ dere han’ in han’, Knowin’ each oder, we lak’ each oder, de French an’ de Englishman, For it’s curi’s t’ing on dis worl’, I’m sure you see it agen an’ agen, Dat offen de mos’ worse ennemi, he’s comin’ de bes’, bes’ frien’.