Leaving The Colonel's Hospitable House On Our Left, We Again Plunged
Into The Woods, And After A Few Minutes' Brisk Walking, Found
Ourselves Upon The Brow Of A Steep Bank That Overlooked The
Beaver-Meadow, Containing Within Its Area Several Hundred Acres.
There is no scenery in the bush that presents such a novel
appearance as those meadows, or openings, surrounded as they
invariably are, by dark, intricate forests; their high, rugged
banks covered with the light, airy tamarack and silver birch.
In
summer they look like a lake of soft, rich verdure, hidden in the
bosom of the barren and howling waste. Lakes they certainly have
been, from which the waters have receded, "ages, ages long ago";
and still the whole length of these curious level valleys is
traversed by a stream, of no inconsiderable dimensions.
The waters of the narrow, rapid creek, which flowed through the
meadow we were about to cross, were of sparkling brightness, and
icy cold. The frost-king had no power to check their swift, dancing
movements, or stop their perpetual song. On they leaped, sparkling
and flashing beneath their ice-crowned banks, rejoicing as they
revelled on in their lonely course. In the prime of the year, this
is a wild and lovely spot, the grass is of the richest green, and
the flowers of the most gorgeous dyes. The gayest butterflies float
above them upon painted wings; and the whip-poor-will pours forth
from the neighbouring woods, at close of dewy eve, his strange but
sadly plaintive cry.
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