But of those objects, viewed
by moonlight, who would have dared becomingly depict the wild beauty? The
same incomparable landscape, with Diana's silver rays softly sleeping on
the virgin snow; on each side, an avenue of oak, spruce and fir trees, the
latter with their emerald boughs wreathed in solid ice, and to the earth
gracefully bending in festoons - now and again kissed by the night wind; at
each wavy motion disclosing their dark trunks, under the frozen foliage,
like old Ocean's billows breaking on dark rocks; the burnished gold of the
morn changed into silver floss, twinkling with a mild radiance, under the
eye of night, like diamond tiaras - a vista fit for Queen Mab! Of such,
mayhap dreamed Moorish maid, under the portals of the Alhambra. Were
Armida's enchanted forests brighter?
Who can describe all thy witchery? Thy nameless graces, who can compass,
serene majesty of Winter in the North? And yet all these glories of frost
and moon-lit snows we once did see round our Canadian Home.
Wouldst thou fancy another view of winter less serene; a contrast such as
glorious old KIT NORTH would have revelled in? Step forward, my witty, my
sarcastic friend of the Evenement newspaper - by name Henri Fabre!
"The true season of Canada is winter; winter with its bright skies by day
and its brighter stars by night. Of spring we have none. April is nothing
better than a protracted thaw, with scenes of mud and melting snow. May,
the month dear to poets, is frequently but an uninterrupted succession of
showers to fecundate the earth; its symbol, an array of outspread
umbrellas in our streets. As to our summer, it is but the epitome of the
lovely summer of France and Italy for the use of new countries. Autumn is
a shade better; but anon, the first frost hurries on to blanch and
disperse the leaves and dim the hues of mellowed nature. When the fields
slumber under ten feet of snow; when human noses freeze before their
sneezing owners have time to utter a cry for help, then is the beau
ideal of our climate. He who on such an occasion dares to sigh for the
boasted shade of trees and the murmur of gushing waters, that man is no
true Canadian. The searching wind, the cold, the northern blast, [295] are
part and parcel of our country; one is bound to love them. Should they
increase in intensity, rub your hands, first to keep yourself warm, nest
to denote your patriotic joy!"
But all this won't prevent us from exclaiming with a Canadian son of song:
"Oh! dear is the Northern forest home,
Where the great pine shoots on high;
And the maple spreads its soft, green leaves
In the clear, blue, taintless sky;
Though the summer mantle paleth fast
Into winter's virgin veil -
There is health in the fierce, quick lightning blast,
And strength in the icy gale;
And life glides on in a quiet calm,
Like our own great river's flow;
And dear to the hearts of her children all
Is our own FAIR LAND OF SNOW!"
SILLERY, near Quebec, 1881.
