Castor Ville, A Forest Wild, Where Many Generations Of Beavers, Otters,
Caribou, Boars, Foxes And Hares Once Roamed, Loved And Died, Covers An
Area Of More Than One Hundred Acres.
Through it glides the placid course
of the St. Charles - overhung by hoary fir trees - from the parent lake
To
the pretty Indian Lorette Falls, a distance of about eight miles of fairy
scenery, which every man of taste, visiting Lake St. Charles, ought to
enjoy at least once in his life. 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?
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