'We've picked up
their ways of politics,' he said mournfully. 'That comes of living next
door to them; but I don't think we're anxious to mix up with their other
messes. They say they don't want us. They keep on saying it. There's a
nigger on the fence somewhere, or they wouldn't lie about it.'
'But does it follow that they are lying?'
'Sure. I've lived among 'em. They can't go straight. There's some dam'
fraud at the back of it.'
From this belief he would not be shaken. He had lived among
them - perhaps had been bested in trade. Let them keep themselves and
their manners and customs to their own side of the line, he said.
This is very sad and chilling. It seemed quite otherwise in New York,
where Canada was represented as a ripe plum ready to fell into Uncle
Sam's mouth when he should open it. The Canadian has no special love for
England - the Mother of Colonies has a wonderful gift for alienating the
affections of her own household by neglect - but, perhaps, he loves his
own country. We ran out of the snow through mile upon mile of
snow-sheds, braced with twelve-inch beams, and planked with two-inch
planking.
