What do I see? I see the savage life—the light canoe floating on the blue lake—painted warriors spearing the salmon, chasing the deer upon the plain, dragging the surly bear in triumph,—I see the swift paddle chase—I hear the laugh of children—the voice of patient squaws—the distant yell as rounding the point, the returning braves bemoan the dead left on the war-path, and as the shades of evening close, the sun in golden radiance retiring o’er the mountains, I see them congregate in wigwams in the cove.—The blue smoke rises gently o’er the tree tops, and all is still—quiet and serenity obtain—the whip-poor-will, and cricket, amid the drowsy hum of insect life, keep melancholy cadence. “Stranger! venture not near them—the peace is treacherous. No civilized challenge shall give thee warning, but the cruel war-shriek wildly ring o’er the insensate brain as the light tomahawk trembles in thy cloven skull.” Wild mist rolls onward—I hear sounds of distant music—the mellow horn—the clashing cymbals break from its midst. Ah! it rises. A gallant army, in proud array, with flags and banners—bright glittering arms, and ponderous artillery. With alacrity they effect their landing. They fraternise with the red-skinned warriors. Their military lines run round like magic. I feel, e’en where we stand, huge walls, grim towers rise, and bastions springing up around us—the spotless drapeau blanc, high o’er our heads, floats in the breeze—wild chansons of love, of war, of la belle France, mix with mirth and revelry. “Stranger, ’tis the quick ‘_Qui Vive_’ that doth arrest thy footstep.” Ay—now, Old Time, the mystic curtain again rolls upwards. What do I see?—Red-coated soldiers advancing in proud battalia through the forest glades, the sunbeams dancing on their bayonets. I hear the sound of bugles—the clamorous roll of drums, the groaning jar and creak of heavy-wheeled artillery. Spread along the lines, covered with sharp abattis and water moat, I see the impatient Gaul, with savage ally in ambushment, await their coming—they advance with desperate valour,—they ford the ditch, they hew the sharpened trees with axes. In vain—the balls like hail, from unseen foes murderously destroy them—their leader falls—hark! the bugle with melancholy wail sounds their retreat. Again, Old Time, an interval—again red-coated soldiers! again groaning artillery! Look up!—the drapeau blanc has vanished—the meteor flag streams proudly from the flag-staff. “Stranger, ’tis the Anglo-Saxon’s rough challenge that gruffly breaks upon thy ear.”