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 Rivieres--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..