It was midnight when the children were placed on my cloak at the bottom of the canoe, and we bade adieu to this hospitable family.  The wind being dead against us, we were obliged to dispense with the sail, and take to our paddles.  The moonlight was as bright as day, the air warm and balmy; and the aromatic, resinous smell exuded by the heat from the balm-of-gilead and the pine-trees in the forest, added greatly to our sense of enjoyment as we floated past scenes so wild and lonely—­isles that assumed a mysterious look and character in that witching hour.  In moments like these, I ceased to regret my separation from my native land; and, filled with the love of Nature, my heart forgot for the time the love of home.  The very spirit of peace seemed to brood over the waters, which were broken into a thousand ripples of light by every breeze that stirred the rice blossoms, or whispered through the shivering aspen-trees.  The far-off roar of the rapids, softened by distance, and the long, mournful cry of the night-owl, alone broke the silence of the night.  Amid these lonely wilds the soul draws nearer to God, and is filled to overflowing by the overwhelming sense of His presence.

It was two o’clock in the morning when we fastened the canoe to the landing, and Moodie carried up the children to the house.  I found the girl still up with my boy, who had been very restless during our absence.  My heart reproached me, as I caught him to my breast, for leaving him so long; in a few minutes he was consoled for past sorrows, and sleeping sweetly in my arms.

A CANADIAN SONG

  Come, launch the light canoe;
    The breeze is fresh and strong;
  The summer skies are blue,
    And ’tis joy to float along;
      Away o’er the waters,
      The bright-glancing waters,
      The many-voiced waters,
    As they dance in light and song.

  When the great Creator spoke,
    On the long unmeasured night
  The living day-spring broke,
    And the waters own’d His might;
      The voice of many waters,
      Of glad, rejoicing waters,
      Of living, leaping waters,
    First hailed the dawn of light.

  Where foaming billows glide
    To earth’s remotest bound;
  The rushing ocean tide
    Rolls on the solemn sound;
      God’s voice is in the waters;
      The deep, mysterious waters,
      The sleepless, dashing waters,
    Still breathe its tones around.

CHAPTER XIX

The “Ould dhragoon”

[I am indebted to my husband for this sketch.]

  Behold that man, with lanky locks,
  Which hang in strange confusion o’er his brow;
  And nicely scan his garments, rent and patch’d,
  In colours varied, like a pictured map;
  And watch his restless glance—­now grave, now gay—­
  As saddening thought, or merry humour’s