If Wrong
At First, You Take To Turning Round,
The Traineau Leaves You, And You're Found
Down At The Bottom, Rolling Still,
Shaken And Bruised And Feeling Ill.
Adieu, Ye Lakes And All The Fishing!
To Cast A Fly We've Long Been Wishing.
One Last Adieu!
Sorry are we
That this must be our p.p.c.!
Folly to think we'll feel resigned
In leaving you, who've proved so kind.
Our bark of happiness goes wreck,
In quitting you, far-famed Quebec!
- P.P.C., of the 25th K.O.B.
Our thoroughfares, our promenades, even in those dreary months, when the
northern blast howls over the Canadian landscape, have some blithsome
gleams of sunshine. Never shall we forget one bright, frosty January
afternoon, about four o'clock, in the year 1872, when solitary, though
not sad, standing on Durham [80] Terrace, was unveiled to us "a most
magnificent picture, a scene of glorified nature painted by the hand of
the Creator. The setting sun had charged the skies with all its gorgeous
heraldry of purple and crimson and gold, and the tints were diffused and
reflected through fleecy clouds, becoming softer and richer through
expansion. The mountain tops, wood-crowned, where the light and shadow
appeared to be struggling for mastery, stood out in relief from the white
plain, and stretching away in indistinct, dreamy distances finally seemed
to blend with the painted skies. The ice-covered bay was lit up with
glowing shades, in contrast with the deep blue of the clear water beyond;
from which the island rose, and into which the point jutted with grand
picturesqueness; the light played through the frost-adorned, but still
sombre pines, and spread out over deserted fields.
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