Caho', with her grandmother and grandfather, the old Barbeaus.

Along the south bank of this rigolé which bounds the north end of
Caho' were all the pleasantest houses then: rez-de-chaussée, of
course, but large; with dormer windows in the roofs; and high of
foundation, having flights of steps going up to the galleries. For
though the Mississippi was a mile away in those days, and had not yet
eaten in to our very sides, it often came visiting. I have seen this
grassy-bottomed rigolé many a time swimming with fifteen feet of
water, and sending ripples to the gallery steps. Between the marais
and the Mississippi, the spring rains were a perpetual danger. There
are men who want the marshes all filled up. They say it will add to us
on one side what the great river is taking from us on the other; but
myself--I would never throw in a shovelful: God made this world; it is
good enough; and when the water rises we can take to boats.

The Le Compts lived in this very house, and the old Barbeaus lived
next, on the corner, where this rigolé road crosses the street running
north and south. Every house along the rigolé was set in spacious
grounds, with shade trees and gardens, and the sloping lawns blazed
with flowers. My mother said it was much prettier than Kaskaskia; not
crowded with traffic; not overrun with foreigners. Everybody seemed
to be making a fête, to be visiting or receiving visits. At sunset the
fiddle and the banjo began their melody. The young girls would gather
at Barbeau's or Le Compt's or Pensonneau's--at any one of a dozen
places, and the young men would follow. It was no trouble to have
a dance every evening, and on feast days and great days there were
balls, of course. The violin ran in my family. Celeste Barbeau would
call across the hedge to my mother,--