Reader! it is not my intention to trouble you with the sequel of our history. I have given you a faithful picture of a life in the backwoods of Canada, and I leave you to draw from it your own conclusions. To the poor, industrious workingman it presents many advantages; to the poor gentleman, _none!_ The former works hard, puts up with coarse, scanty fare, and submits, with a good grace, to hardships that would kill a domesticated animal at home. Thus he becomes independent, inasmuch as the land that he has cleared finds him in the common necessaries of life; but it seldom, if ever, in remote situations, accomplishes more than this. The gentleman can neither work so hard, live so coarsely, nor endure so many privations as his poorer but more fortunate neighbour. Unaccustomed to manual labour, his services in the field are not of a nature to secure for him a profitable return. The task is new to him, he knows not how to perform it well; and, conscious of his deficiency, he expends his little means in hiring labour, which his bush farm can never repay. Difficulties increase, debts grow upon him, he struggles in vain to extricate himself, and finally sees his family sink into hopeless ruin. If these sketches should prove the means of deterring one family from sinking their property, and shipwrecking all their hopes, by going to reside in the backwoods of Canada, I shall consider myself amply repaid for revealing the secrets of the prison house, and feel that I have not toiled and suffered in the wilderness in vain. THE MAPLE-TREE. A CANADIAN SONG. Hail to the pride of the forest--hail To the maple, tall and green; It yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail While leaves on its boughs are seen. When the moon shines bright, On the wintry night, And silvers the frozen snow; And echo dwells On the jingling bells As the sleighs dart to and fro; Then it brightens the mirth Of the social hearth With its red and cheery glow. Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades, It lifts its tall head on high; When the crimson-tinted evening fades From the glowing saffron sky; When the sun's last beams Light up woods and streams, And brighten the gloom below; And the deer springs by With his flashing eye, And the shy, swift-footed doe; And the sad winds chide In the branches wide, With a tender plaint of woe. The Indian leans on its rugged trunk, With the bow in his red right-hand, And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk From the glorious forest land. But, blithe and free, The maple-tree, Still tosses to sun and air Its thousand arms, While in countless swarms The wild bee revels there; But soon not a trace Of the red man's race Shall be found in the landscape fair.