History, as written, is largely a record of crimes and blunders that are exposed or whitewashed according to the political bias of the man who is writing the history. Historians, as a rule, are more given to the use of whitewash than a political investigating committee. Fired by a patriotic desire to picture for us a country worth loving they suppress much, glorify everything that seems worth glorifying, and give us something that is no nearer the truth than the crayon portraits you see in many country parlors. If historians told the simple truth, every nation with a scrap of decency would be trying to live down its history, just as a convict tries to live down his past. And yet--and yet I confess to a love of Canada that is not simply a patriotic emotion, but a passion to which my whole being vibrates. To me Canada is a living soul--a Presence that companions me in the fields--a mighty mother that nourished my youth and inspires my manhood. Whenever I think of Canada I remember Carman's wonderful lines: "When I have lifted up my heart to thee, Then hast thou ever hearkened and drawn near, And bowed thy shining face close over me, Till I could hear thee as the hill-flowers hear." When I strive to fathom the secret of this love I find that it is due to the fact that I learned history, not from books, but from the lips of the men and women who made Canada--that I learned the history, not of the government, but of the people. The spirit that broods over me to-day is the same that danced among the shadows beside an open fireplace while I listened to endless crooning tales of the sufferings and hopes of the pioneers. The Spirit of Freedom that led them into the wilderness became my spirit, and their dream of a free Canada became a living spirit that danced about me in the flickering light of the flaming back-logs. By some trick of the imagination I have always thought of Canada as the blithe spirit that haunted my childhood. But in my childhood she did not always come in the same guise. Sometimes she would come gliding out of the depths of the forest, a shy and dusky sprite that would take me by the hand and teach me the love of flowers and birds and the infinite mysteries of Nature. Again she would come as a country maid, glowing with the joy of life, who would lead me through the fields where she reaped the harvest and bound the sheaves. Always she walked in the sunlight and though her moods were full of song and care-free laughter "She had the lonely calm and poise Of life that waits and wills."