There
are public schools, for example, in certain parts of that city where there
is not a child of American parentage. There is one, in particular, which I
visit frequently and which I call the "oasis" in the desert of humanity
(Walt Whitman's Sahara), where two or three thousand children are
gathered, literally from the plains of Russia, the valleys of Italy, and
other parts of Europe--for these were their ancestral homes, though they
come immediately from the swarming streets and dimly lighted, ill-smelling
tenements of New York--and there, aspiring under the hopeful teaching of
the city, I have heard them, boys and girls together, sing, with all the
joy and cleanliness of shepherd children, of a leading in green pastures
and by still waters.
But to come back to the cities in the valley of Nouvelle France, there is
no note of else than hope there. Mistakes, disappointments, crudities,
infidelities? Yes, but the mistakes, disappointments, crudities, failures
of youth--youth of strong passions and love of play but of a masterful
will that a generous nature has so much encouraged and aided as to obscure
its limitations.
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