LENNOX ISLAND AND MICMACS 213 and games—and then I spied a wedding ring on her finger. She interrupted my question. "Are you married?" "No, " I admitted, and wondered why she asked me. Gradually she gave me the outline of her life. She was Indian, she said, and had married a Frenchman. They had three children. And still, I thought, she did not look old enough to be out of school. Her oldest child was nine. "Can you speak Micmac?" I asked her. "No," she admitted softly, and after a pause, "but I speak Indian." "And French?" "Yes." "And English?" "Yes." Apparently the Indians are the Island's best linguists. "Try some Indian," I coaxed her. With a twinkle in her eye she spoke some unintel¬ ligible jargon. Did I dare, I wondered, try that one about the green umbrella on her. Perhaps not. But I did. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed. At me ... or my accent ... or sentence, I wondered. "My man can speak Indian, too," she remarked proudly. "He couldn't speak it when I married him." "Have an apple?" she proffered two green ones. "Thanks!" And off she went. I returned to the sheep that was stuck on that last hurdle. Just as he was getting nicely over again:—