A Canadian settler _hates_ a tree, regards it as his natural enemy, as something to be destroyed, eradicated, annihilated by all and any means. The idea of useful or ornamental is seldom associated here even with the most magnificent timber trees, such as among the Druids had been consecrated, and among the Greeks would have sheltered oracles and votive temples. The beautiful faith which assigned to every tree of the forest its guardian nymph, to every leafy grove its tutelary divinity, would find no votaries here. Alas! for the Dryads and Hamadryads of Canada! There are two principal methods of killing trees in this country, besides the quick, unfailing destruction of the axe; the first by setting fire to them, which sometimes leaves the root uninjured to rot gradually and unseen, or be grubbed up at leisure, or, more generally, there remains a visible fragment of a charred and blackened stump, deformed and painful to look upon: the other method is slower, but even more effectual; a deep gash is cut through the bark into the stem, quite round the bole of the tree. This prevents the circulation of the vital juices, and by degrees the tree droops and dies. This is technically called _ringing_ timber. Is not this like the two ways in which a woman's heart may be killed in this world of ours--by passion and by sorrow? But better far the swift fiery death than this "ringing," as they call it! * * * * * February 21. The monotony of this my most monotonous existence was fearfully broken last night. I had gone early to my room, and had just rung for my maid, when I was aware of a strange light flashing through the atmosphere,--a fire was raging in the lower parts of the city. I looked out; there was the full moon, brighter than ever she shows her fair face in our dear cloudy England, looking down upon the snowy landscape, and the icy bay glittered like a sheet of silver; while on the other side of the heavens all was terror and tumult--clouds of smoke mingled with spires of flame rose into the sky. Far off the garrison was beating to arms--the bells tolling; yet all around there was not a living being to be seen, and the snow-waste was still as death.