victorious Americans to retreat rapidly over the ridge. The struggle on
their part was of short duration. In front was a foe thirsting for
revenge; behind, the steep banks and swiftly-flowing waters of Niagara.
The "Green Tigers," the Indians, their most despised slaves, and last,
but certainly not least, the gallant Canadian militia, were objects of
terror to them. Some few in despair threw themselves over the precipices
into the river; but the majority of the survivors surrendered themselves
prisoners of war, to the number of nine hundred and fifty, among whom
was their commander, General Wadsworth. The leader of the expedition,
General Van Rensselaer, had retired to Lewiston--as he said, for
reinforcements--in the early part of the day. The loss of the Americans
in this memorable action was about five hundred killed and wounded;
while that of the Canadian forces amounted to one hundred and fifty.
Throughout Canada the news of the victory of Queenston Heights awakened
universal joy and enthusiasm, second only to that with which the taking
of Detroit was hailed. But the joy and enthusiasm were damped by the sad
tidings, that he who had first taught Canada's sons the way to victory
had given his life for her defence, and slept in a soldier's grave with
many of her best and bravest.
UNKNOWN
THE BUGLE SONG
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
TENNYSON
CHARITY
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not
charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though
I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all
knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove
mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all
my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and
have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity
vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly,
seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth
not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things,
believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity
never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether
there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall
vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that
which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.
When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I
thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I
know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now
abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is
charity.
I. CORINTHIANS, XIII.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
"What means this glory round our feet,"
The Magi mused, "more bright than morn?"
And voices chanted clear and sweet,
"To-day the Prince of Peace is born."
"What means that star," the Shepherds said,
"That brightens through the rocky glen?"
And angels, answering overhead,
Sang, "Peace on earth, good-will to men!"
'Tis eighteen hundred years and more
Since those sweet oracles were dumb;
We wait for Him, like them of yore;
Alas, He seems so slow to come!
But it was said, in words of gold
No time or sorrow e'er shall dim,
That little children might be bold
In perfect trust to come to Him.
All round about our feet shall shine
A light like that the wise men saw,
If we our living wills incline
To that sweet Life which is the Law.
So shall we learn to understand
The simple faith of shepherds then,
And, clasping kindly, hand in hand,
Sing, "Peace on earth, good-will to men."
And they who do their souls no wrong,
But keep at eve the faith of morn,
Shall daily hear the angel song,
"To-day the Prince of Peace is born!"
LOWELL
THE BARREN LANDS
Long before the treeless wastes are reached, the forests cease to be
forests except by courtesy. The trees--black and white spruce, the
Canadian larch, and the gray pine, willow, alder, etc.--have an
appearance of youth; so that the traveller would hardly suppose them to
be more than a few years old, at first sight. Really this juvenile
appearance is a species of second childhood; for, on the shores of the
Great Bear Lake, four centuries are necessary for the growth of a trunk
not as thick as a man's wrist. The further north the more lamentably
decrepit becomes the appearance of these woodlands, until, presently,
their sordidness is veiled by thick growths of gray lichens--the
"caribou moss," as it is called--which clothe the trunks and hang down
from the shrivelled boughs. And still further north the trees become
mere stunted stems, set with blighted buds that have never been able to
develop themselves into branches; until, finally, the last vestiges of
arboreal growth take refuge under a thick carpet of lichens and mosses,
the characteristic vegetation of the Barren Grounds.
Nothing more dismal than the winter aspect of these wastes can be
imagined. The Northern forests are silent enough in winter time, but the
silence of the Barren Grounds is far more profound. Even in the depths
of midwinter the North-Western bush has voices and is full of animal
life. The barking cry of the crows (these birds are the greatest
imaginable nuisance to the trapper, whose baits they steal even before
his back is turned) is still heard; the snow-birds and other small
winged creatures are never quiet between sunset and sunrise; the
jack-rabbit, whose black bead-like eye betrays his presence among the
snow-drifts in spite of his snow-white fur, is common enough; and the
childlike wailing of the coyotes is heard every night. But with the
exception of the shriek of the snow-owl or the yelping of a fox emerged
from his lair, there is no sound of life during seven or eight or nine
months of winter on the Barren Grounds; unless the traveller is able to
hear the rushing sound--some can hear it, others cannot--of the shifting
Northern lights.
In May, however, when the snows melt and the swamps begin to thaw, the
Barren Grounds become full of life. To begin with, the sky is literally
darkened with enormous flights of wild-fowl, whom instinct brings from
the southern reaches of the Mississippi and its tributaries to these
sub-Arctic wildernesses, where they find an abundance of food, and at
the same time build their nests and rear their young in safety. The
snow-geese are the first to arrive; next come the common and eider-duck;
after them the great northern black-and-red-throated divers; and last of
all the pin-tail and the long-tail ducks. Some of these go no further
than just beyond the outskirts of the forest region; others, flying
further northward, lay their eggs in the open on the moss. Eagles and
hawks prey on these migratory hosts; troops of ptarmigan (they are said
to go to no place where the mercury does not freeze) seek food among the
stunted willows on the shores of the lakes and sloughs; and in sunny
weather the snow-bunting's song is heard.
Soon after the arrival of the migratory birds the wilderness becomes
newly clothed in green and gray. The snow, which never once thaws during
the long winter, forms a safe protection for vegetable life.
As soon as the lengthening summer's day has thawed this coverlet of
snows, vegetation comes on at a surprising rate--a week's sunshine on
the wet soil completely transforming the aspect of the country. It is
then that the caribou leave their winter quarters in the forest region
and journey to the Barren Grounds.
Just as the prairies might have been called "Buffalo-land" thirty years
ago, and the intervening enforested country may still be styled
"Moose-land"--not that the moose is nearly so common in Saskatchewan and
Athabaska as it was before the rebellion of 1885 opened up that
country--so from the hunter's point of view "Caribou-land" would be an
exceedingly apt name for the _tundra_ of Greater Canada. Only the
Indians and the Eskimos (the former living on the confines of the
forests, and the latter along the far Arctic coasts) visit these
territories, and but for the presence of the vast herds of caribou, it
is pretty certain that such mosquito-haunted wastes would never be
trodden by man. It is true that the musk-ox is an important inhabitant
of the wastes, but the numbers of that strange beast, which seems to be
half sheep, half ox, are not nearly so great, and there are reasons to
believe that it is being slowly but surely driven from its ancient
pastures by the caribou, just as, in so many parts of the world, the
nations of the antelope have receded before the deer-tribes.
E. B. OSBORN: "Greater Canada."
A SPRING MORNING
There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods:
But now the sun is rising calm and bright,
The birds are singing in the distant woods,
Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods,
The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters,
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.
All things that love the sun are out of doors,
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth,
The grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet, she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
WORDSWORTH
For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers
appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the
voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
SOLOMON'S SONG. II, 11, 12
CROSSING THE BAR
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
TENNYSON