It Is All Through Mantled Over By A Dense
Second Growth Of Spruce And Fir Trees, Intersected By A Maze Of Avenues.
The Lodge Sits Gracefully, With Its Verandah And Artillery, On A Peninsula
Formed By The Grand Desert And St. Charles Streams.
You can cross
over in a canoe to that portion of the domain beyond the river:
Along the
banks, a number of resting places - tiny bowers of birch bark - dingies and
canoes anchored all round - here and there a portage - close by, a
veritable Indian wigwam - Oda Sio [293] by name. On a bright morning
in early spring, you may chance to meet, in one of the paths, or in his
canoe, a white-haired hunter, the Master of Castor Ville, returning home
after visiting his hare, fox, or otter traps, proudly bearing Lepus
in his game bag, next to which you may discover a volume of Moliere,
Montaigne or Montesquieu. On selling Castle-Coucy, its loyal-hearted
old proprietor, taking with him the guns of the fort, retired to the
present wild demesne, in which occasionally he passes, with his family,
many pleasant hours, amidst books, friends and rural amusements, far from
city noises and city excitement.
Castor Ville belongs to the Hon. Louis Panet, member of the Legislative
Council of Canada." (Written in 1865.)
Since this little sketch was penned, sixteen years ago, the unwelcome
shadow of years has crept over our old friend, eighty-six winters and then
frost has cooled the ardor of the Chasseur, Castor Ville for Mr. Panet
has lost much of its sunshine.
THE JOYS OF WINTER.
"Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the earth and sky below,
Over the house-tops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet,
Dancing,
Flirting,
Skimming along,
Beautiful snow, it can do no wrong,
Flying to kiss a lady's cheek,
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak,
Beautiful snow from the heaven above,
Pure as an angel, gentle as love!
Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go,
Whirling about in the maddening fun,
It plays in its glee with every one,
Chasing,
Laughing,
Hurrying by,
It lights on the face and sparkles the eye!
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals that eddy around,
The town is alive, and its heart is aglow!
To welcome the coming of the beautiful snow
How the wild crowds go swaying along,
Hailing each other with humour and song,
How the gay sledges, like meteors, pass by,
Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye,
Ringing,
Swinging,
Dashing they go,
Over the crust of this beautiful snow,
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
To he trampled and tracked by the crowd rushing by,
To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet,
Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street."
Has it ever been your fortune, kind reader, to enjoy, in the depth of
winter, a ramble in a Canadian forest, at the mystic hour when the Queen
of Night asserts her silent sway? Have you ever revelled in this feast of
soul, fresh from the busy hum of city life - perchance strolling up a
mountain path with undulating plains of spotless whiteness behind you, or
else canopied by the leafy dome of odorous pines or green hemlock, with no
other companion but your trusty rifle, nor other sound but the hoot of the
Great Horned Owl, disturbed by the glare of your camp fire - or the rustle
of the passing hare, skulking fox, or browsing cariboo? Have you ever been
compelled, venturesome hunter as you are, with the lengthening shades of
evening, after a twenty miles' run, to abandon the blood-stained trail,
reserving for the morrow the slaying of the stricken cariboo? Can you
recall the sense of weariness, with which you retraced your heavy steps to
the camp - perspiring at every pore, - panting with thirst - famished -
perhaps bewildered with the flakes of the gathering storm - yea, so
exhausted, that the crackling of the pine faggots of your mountain hut -
watched over in your absence by your faithful Indian "Gabriel" [294] -
struck on your quickened senses amidst the winter gloom like heavenly
music - sounds as soft, as welcome as the first April sunbeam? Have you
ever had the hardiness to venture with an Indian guide and toboggin on an
angling tour far north in the Laurentian chain, to that Ultima Thule
sacred to the disciples of old Isaac. Snow Lake, over chasm, dale,
mountain, pending that month dear above all others to King Hiems -
inexorable January? If so, you can indeed boast of having held communion
with the grim God of Winter in some of his stern, though captivating,
moods. Nor are these the only charms which the capricious monarch has in
store.
Never shall I forget, one balmy March morning, sauntering along the green
uplands of Sillery, towards the city, while the "sun god" was pouring
overhead, waves of soft, purple light. The day previous, one of our
annual, equinoctial storms had careered over the country; first, wind and
snow; then wind and sleet, the latter dissolving into icy tears,
encircling captive Nature in thousands of weird, glossy crystals; every
tree of the forest, according to its instinct, its nature, writhing in the
conqueror's cold embrace - rigid, creaking, ready to snap in twain rather
than bend, as the red oak or sugar maple, or else meekly, submissively
curving to the earth its tapering, frosted limbs, like the silver birch -
elegant, though fragile, ornament of the Canadian park, or else, rearing
amid air a graceful net-work - waving, transparent sapphire-tinted
arabesques, stretched on amber pillars; witness the Golden Willow. Each
gleam of sunshine investing this gorgeous tapestry with all the glories of
Iris; here, rising above his compeers, a stately lord of the grove, hoary
with frost and years, whose outspreading boughs are burnished, as if every
twig had been touched by the hand of an enchanter, whilst there, under his
shade, bends a mountain ash, smeared with the crimsoned berries of the
preceding summer, now ice-coated bon-bons eagerly plucked by troops
of roseate grosbeaks resting on the whitened branches.
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