Something which they but half saw--half a sight was enough--sent them tearing back through the willow-brakes and acacia bushes to their homes, where they fairly dropped down, and cried: "Was it white ?" "No--yes--nearly so--we can't tell--but we saw it." And one could hardly doubt, to look at their ashen faces, that they had, whatever it was.
"If that old rascal lived in the country we come from," said certain Americains, "he'd have been tarred and feathered before now, wouldn't he, Sanders ?" "Well, now he just would." "And we'd have rid him on a rail, wouldn't we ?" "That's what I allow." "Tell you what you _could_ do." They were talking to some rollicking Creoles who had assumed an absolute necessity for doing _something_.
"What is it you call this thing where an old man marries a young girl, and you come out with horns and"-- "_Charivari_ ?" asked the Creoles.
"Yes, that's it.

Why don't you shivaree him ?" Felicitous suggestion.
Little White, with his wife beside him, was sitting on their doorsteps on the sidewalk, as Creole custom had taught them, looking toward the sunset.

They had moved into the lately-opened street.

The view was not attractive on the score of beauty.

The houses were small and scattered, and across the flat commons, spite of the lofty tangle of weeds and bushes, and spite of the thickets of acacia, they needs must see the dismal old Poquelin mansion, tilted awry and shutting out the declining sun.