sailed up the St. Lawrence, and even before the Indian population moved backward and northward upon those backwater chains, and away from Lake Ontario. To establish this fact most indisputably, we have only to look at the many skulls, and larger human bones, generally, which the ploughshare turns out. Then the red man enjoyed his pagan rites without the intermeddling of the expectant Jesuit missionary, who only came ages and ages after; for, among the bones, we find his flints, skinning stones, and stone tomahawks, but no articles of iron, because the Frenchman, who first came here, had not then given him tomahawks of iron and old flint guns. Imitative whites, whose eyes travelled about the horizon, as did the Indians’, drank in the beauty of the scene inceptively, and they in their turn made it their place of sepulture, and to-day it is the white man’s burial ground, embosomed among the evergreen trees, which Old Sol’s rays are penetrating for me. While I stand and worship at Nature’s shrine in the early summer morn, with the sun’s advent a gentle breeze has risen. God has been specially good to us in giving this sublimely beautiful vision: “The south wind was like a gentle friend, Parting the hair so softly on my brow, It had come o’er gardens, and the flowers That kissed it were betrayed; for as it parted With its invisible fingers my loose hair, I knew it had been trifling with the rose, And stooping to the violet. There is joy For all God’s creatures in it.”