commences with the children, for infants never have their heads covered during the day.  At first the little bald heads seem unsightly to a stranger, but when the eye gets accustomed, they look much better in their own natural beauty then when decked out in lace and muslin.  The plan of keeping the head cool seems to answer well, for New Brunswick may rival any country in the world for a display of lovely infants.  Sybel has the delicacy of appearance which the constant in-door occupation of the women gives them, differing much from the coarse, but healthier look of those countries where the females assist in field labours.  The “blue nose” considers it “agin all nature” for women to work out, and none are ever seen so employed, unless it be the families of emigrants before they are naturalised.  A flush of delight crimsons Sybel’s pale face as she welcomes me in, for simple and retired as her life is, she yet cherishes in her heart all the fondness for company and visiting inherent to her sex, and loves to enjoy them whenever opportunity permits.  No excuse would be listened to,—­I must stay dinner—­my bonnet is untied, and placed upon the bed—­Sybel has churned in the early cool of the morning, and she has now been working over the golden produce of her labours with a wooden ladle in a tray.  With this ladle the butter is taken from the churn; the milk beaten out, and formed by it into rolls—­nothing else is employed, for moulds or prints are not used as in England.  She has just finished, and placed it in her dairy, a little bark-lined recess adjoining the house—­and now, on hospitable thoughts intent, she has caught up her pail and is gone for water—­in this we are most luxurious in New Brunswick, never keeping any quantity in the house, but using it bright and sparkling as it gushes from the spring.  While she is gone, we will take a pencilling of her dwelling.  A beautiful specimen of still-life, in the shape of a baby six months old, reposes in its cradle—­its eye-lids’ long and silky fringes are lightly folded in sleep on its smooth round cheek.  Another older one is swinging in the rocking chair, playing with some chips and bark, the only toys of the log house—­this single apartment serves the family for parlour, for kitchen, and hall—­the chamber above being merely used as a store room, or receptacle for lumber—­’tis the state bed-room as well, and on the large airy-looking couch is displayed a splendid coverlet of home-spun wool, manufactured in a peculiar style, the possessing of which is the first ambition of a back-wood matron, and for which she will manoeuvre as much as a city lady would for some bijou of a chiffionier, or centre table—­Sybel has gained her’s by saving each year a portion of the wool, until she had enough to accomplish this sure mark of industry, and of getting along in the world; for if they are not getting along or improving in circumstances their farms will not raise sheep enough to yield the