Poached Egg on Toast by Frances Itani

up as a horse; someone plays crack-the-whip with their tail. A thin Père Noël arrives, even though it is February. He has leftover cinnamon-tasting hard candies to give away.
    All the little ones receive a prize. The older children are judged. The priest favours a tramp. The mayor likes the Saint Bernard with the keg around its neck. They compromise; both the Saint Bernard and the tramp are awarded fifty cents.
    The priest goes back to the church, his skirts billowing around hidden legs. Everyone comes out on the ice to sing. The men swell their chests:
    Chevaliers de la table ronde
Allons voir si le vin est bon
Allons voir oui, oui, oui
Allons voir non, non, non
Allons voir si le vin est bo-o-on
    Bottles are pulled from pockets; the keg is borrowed from the Saint Bernard, filled and passed around. The villagers sing and sing, and finally everyone goes home. Monsieur Poirot and Mr. Smith walk together, arms around shoulders:
    Prendre un p’tit coup
C’est agréable
Prendre un p’tit coup
C’est doux!
Prendre un gros coup
Ça rend l’esprit malade
Prendre un p’tit coup
C’est agréable
Prendre un p’tit coup
C’est d-o-u-x!
    PRINTEMPS
    With spring come the storms. The villagers keep flasks of holy water handy on the shelf. Waves whip across the widest part of the river, lashing shore. Lightning splits the sky; the holy water is grabbed from the shelf, sprinkled outside and in, a little here, a little there. But not everyone is blessed. The Fourniers’ house goes up in flames, nothing saved but the old wringer washer and two kitchen chairs.
    Storm after storm. The holy water dwindles. Run to the church, mon fils; run, ask the priest for another bottle. Light the candles inside; say your prayers; hold your breath; listen for the siren. The tall wooden houses shudder and moan in the wind.
    The sun shines. Flowers bloom. In the damp cedar woods grow trilliums, dogtooth violets, lady’s slipper, petit prêcheurs. Open fields are swollen with tough stalks of blue chicory, and snapdragons that the children call butter-and-eggs.
    Madame Lalonde tells the children, “No swimming until the first day of June.” They whimper and coax and whimper some more, but she will not budge. It is all a façade, really, because early in May each year, Amélie and Jacques sneak away from the hill, down along the road until they come to the river. Here they slide down shale and loose rock until they are at the swollen bank. The water is crystal, numbing cold. They cross their hearts and spit, swear never to tell; then, off with the shoes and stockings. Spring water laps between the toes. Amélie holds her skirt above her knees so that no dampness will show around the hem. Goosebumps erupt on her legs and skin. Her toes cramp with pain; her ankles are white with cold. She and Jacques wade back to shore. Dry their feet in the breeze, on with shoes and socks, walk with a light step, run,
race
the last stretch that turns to gravel in front of their home.
    Even if it is ninety degrees on the thirty-first of May, Madame Lalonde says, No, they must wait. No swimming until the first of June.
    The children scamper about in their underpants, giggling and tripping one another. They form a line on either side of her as they solemnly cross the field. Madame swishes along in thick skirts; she holds high a mound of worn towelling.
    The neighbours look out the windows and watch the march. “June the first,” they sigh. “There goes Madame with her brood to deposit winter lice on the riverbottom.”
    One by one Madame takes each little one out to the current, wading as deep as the child’s knees. Dips the body, soaks the thick brown hair. Together they watch white suds swirl around the legs, bubble and streak, out on quick waves towards the main flow. The head dips again, once, twice. The hair squeaks, smooth, no tangles. The way it would if washed in the rain barrel.
    Along the riverbank, white birches toss their slender, bandaged limbs.
    St. Jean